


regrets only

by ont



Series: mockingbird [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abortion, Actor Harry, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Arguments, Bitterness, Break Up, Depression, Discussion of Abortion, Domestic, Drunk Sex, Exes, Family Drama, Getting Back Together, Harry pov, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Kid Fic, Liam POV, Long-Term Relationship(s), Louis POV, Love Triangles, M/M, Marriage, Married Liam Payne/Louis Tomlinson, Masquerade Ball, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Oral Sex, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Zayn One Direction, Resentment, Rimming, Show Business, Step-parents, Substance Abuse, Therapy, Wedding, Wedding Night, Zayn POV, parenting, past pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7603702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ont/pseuds/ont
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Zayn Malik.”</i>
</p><p>  <i>Harry stands there, water running down his legs, the damp towel hanging limply from his hand.</i></p><p>  <i>“I -- sorry?” he says, stunned.</i></p><p>  <i>“Zayn Malik,” Robb repeats patiently, “is out here in the rain, waiting for you, begging to see you. Should I send him up?”</i></p><p>Liam and Louis' wedding takes place, leading to Zayn's downward spiral and his ultimately ill-fated reunion with Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PART I

**Author's Note:**

> Set between chapter 26 and 27 of the country of the mockingbird. 30k.

Two mornings before Louis and Liam are married on a secluded beach on Maui, paparazzi photos are taken of them walking on that same beach, surfboards in hand, grinning at each other as Mia runs on the sand out ahead of them.

The photos make Zayn sick to his stomach and yet he seeks them out continuously, keeping an article about this outing open on his phone in Safari and glancing at it compulsively throughout the day. He gets a salty taste around his gums when he does it, the same one he gets when he picks at the scabbing on a new tattoo or does one too many lines of coke. It tastes like he just bit down on a penny.

He looks at the article in the backseats of limos, when he's got a free moment in the studio, even the evening after they're released when he's taking a piss in a club, drunk, leaning onto the wall with his elbow and staring at his phone.

“Hey, you're that guy,” the bloke next to him slurs, sounding awed, fawning and a little aroused. “Zayn.”

Zayn is beautiful enough to not find this type of attention novel or exciting. He looks at him and sizes him up: not his type.

“I'm that guy Zayn,” he sighs, and turns sharply to go wash his hands.

On the way home he’s glum in the backseat, chin on his hand, surrounded by models and staring at his phone.

“Let's hit In-N-Out,” someone yells, and cheers go up.

Zayn leans hard against the door, gripping his phone tight through the haze of hard liquor and angling the screen protectively against himself. He doesn't want anyone to see what he's looking at.

He's read the words so many times now he could recite them. He is most drawn to the saccharine lines about how happy Liam and Louis are, fluff that was undoubtedly written by their PR team and sent for accompanying wide distribution once they realized the paps had gotten photos.  

The article mentions their impending wedding no less than three times, name-checking some of their most famous friends who will be in attendance, and making note of the fact that Harry and Niall will be there and Zayn will not.

It's worded pointedly, for a puff piece. Zayn wonders if Louis approved this copy personally. He's becoming more like Simon Cowell as he ages.

_Zayn Malik, father to Tomlinson’s daughter Mia and ex-bandmate to both of the lovebirds, reportedly has declined to attend the nuptials. Representatives for the singer have not responded to our request for comment._

“Declined to attend,” he’d read aloud in the studio that morning to his new manager, Nicky, a profoundly bossy omega who keeps Zayn out of interviews and full of liquor. “Couldn't have just said I'm not goin’?”

“They’ve got new reps, you know, this past year. The joint pieces, about the two of them? All those come out of Gallagher Associates.”

“Yeah?”

Nicky nodded. “Oh, yeah. I know that outfit. Bunch of money-grubbing cunts,” he’d scoffed.

Zayn likes the invective with which Americans say _cunt_ ; you can tell it's so much more serious a word for them.

“Right,” Zayn muttered, masking his stinging hurt with an indifferent scowl.

The photos are painful to Zayn in their own way. He hates the way they look at each other, like no one else is real.

Louis looks great, at least to Zayn’s eye. He stares at Louis every time he looks at the photos, his eyes dragged to him. He's smiling crinkly-eyed, and he's deeply tan. Zayn hasn't seen him with his shirt off in a while. He's fiendish about working out, and it shows; if anything Zayn thinks he's keeping it tighter than before he had a baby. The only thing that gives him away is a few small stretch marks that linger low, right over his pelvis. Zayn wonders why he doesn't tattoo over those or get them lasered, but the sick-headed and soppy part of him is really glad he hasn't.

Liam is still strapping and buff, but softer than he used to be. Zayn notes this with guilty gratification.

They both seem cheery and satisfied; they look fully the part of two people who are about to be married. Deep down in his gut, Zayn was hoping he'd see photos of Louis bored, distracted, any expression that gave him leeway to imagine private strife and discontent between Liam and Louis, anything that indicated things at home were different than the sunny picture painted by their PR team and by themselves when Zayn is around them.

Zayn plans to disappear for a few days when their wedding actually takes place. He knows no one would begrudge him this, and even if they did he doesn't particularly care. He can't stop imagining being at the gym and catching a TV playing some banal E! News story with fuzzy drone photos of the ceremony, and having an anxiety attack.

He keeps returning to the thought that this is the beginning of the end. It would be immensely difficult for Louis to leave Liam and come to him now. Any chance they had of getting back together is going to be swallowed in inertia. Liam will be Mia’s stepfather, officially and forever. Liam will get Louis pregnant as soon as he can; Zayn can divine this easily from the way Liam stares at Louis when they're all together, the way he slings his arm over his shoulders at the slightest provocation, radiating need. He can tell how badly Liam wants to put stakes in Louis, make a permanent tie between them, create a child inside of him. Zayn's only solace is that no matter what, he will always have gotten there first.

Louis texted him four days ago and asked him, one final time, _So_ _you're really properly not coming to the wedding then ??_

 _No_ , he had said back. He had typed out various different responses before settling on that one. Many of those responses contained exhortations for Louis to put this issue to bed. Zayn finally came to the conclusion that _No_ would be the most cutting, effective one.

This turned out to be the case. Louis had said back _alright bro_ , which is how Zayn knows he was upset. Louis only calls him “bro” now when he's cross with him. Zayn understands why he does it. It's a ludicrous thing to call the father of your child, impersonal and borderline hostile. It's usually very effective in making Zayn step back and rethink his behavior.

Usually.

 

*

 

“You're up early,” Liam murmurs.

Louis is up early. He's jetlagged and stressed out. He had tried not to wake Liam when he rolled out of bed, but apparently he failed.

“Yeah,” Louis affirms. His voice tickles and he clears his throat. He stares out of their balcony window, across the patio and infinity pool at the remote stretch of gleaming white beach and the sparkling dark water beyond it. The dim early morning light casts a creepy pallor on the beauty of this place. His arms are folded tightly across his chest.

“Come back,” Liam says, patting the bed.

Louis turns to him. Liam is smiling, winsome, handsome. They wear matching engagement bands, and Liam's shines on his hand in the low light.

“I feel like this might turn into, like, a spectacle,” Louis says softly. His throat is tight just from giving voice to this.

“No, no,” Liam whispers, shaking his head. “We made sure of that. It won't be.”

“I'm nervous,” Louis says to him, slowly, not wanting to say it.

Liam nods in understanding and motions again for Louis to come back to bed. Louis complies. He cuddles up against Liam, his back to Liam's chest. Liam's comforting hands drop to his shoulders and squeeze. He kisses the back of Louis’ neck, his lips tender and sweet, his beard a pleasant tingly brush. Louis settles further against him, dropping his head back against his shoulder and closing his eyes, wanting so badly to relax.

“It isn't too soon?” Louis murmurs. “We’re so young, especially you...”

“Too soon?” Liam laughs. “We've been together nearly five years.”

“Don't feel like five,” Louis counters.

“That's because we’ve been raising a kid,” Liam says, stroking his hair. “Long days, short years.”

Those four words are a refrain they've often relied upon in difficult stretches. They inspire a certain dread in Louis; a compulsive, frantic need to savor all the minutiae of his daily routine.

He feels the opposite of that dread now. It seems to him as if one of the most important moments in his life is upon him, and yet life remains painfully ordinary in spite of this. All the preparatory steps he imagined beforehand -- the ones steeped in ritual and symbolism, like touring the location, meeting with the minister, picking their tuxedos and their rings -- have felt easy, normal, unremarkable, not befitting the gravity of the occasion.

They're in the public eye, and so they already do this sort of thing all the time. They know how to choose a photographer, and how to be photographed -- how to plan a large, intricate event, how to prepare for massively important scripted moments, and how to handle unforeseen minor disasters.

Louis has partially been living vicariously through the excitement of Mia, who is young enough to be besotted with the gravity of the occasion, and through his deep love for Liam, who he sometimes suspects been dreaming of his wedding since he was her age.

“Think of it this way, though,” Liam says, stroking his hand. “We're already married, really.”

Louis nods. They are that, at least; they signed the license in Surrey before their flight to Hawaii.

“I just worry this isn't going to feel as big as it is, ‘cos we're already so domestic,” Louis says, tipping his head back to look at Liam, who kisses his temple. “I, like… I just reckon it's almost going to feel like some crazy party we're throwin’.”

Liam grins.

“But that's what it is,” he says. “Our two million dollar party. That's exactly what it is, so just enjoy it.”

Louis laughs at this, and feels somewhat relieved.

 

*

 

They go to breakfast, at which point Fred, the head of security for the event, takes Louis aside and tells him the paparazzi are getting closer to the wedding location in the speedboat passes they've been making.

“Move it in further off the beach, then?” Louis says, anxious and annoyed, his palms slick. “Shit. You're sure?”

Fred nods.

Over Fred’s shoulder, Liam is glancing back across the opulent dining room at him in concern. Louis gives him a small smile and he turns back around, returning to the conversation Jay and Lottie are engrossed in.

“Yeah, I s'pose just move it further in, again,” Louis says with a sigh. “And thanks, mate, for all your hard work on this.”

Fred tips his ballcap and takes his leave. Louis settles back in his seat. He stares into space, trying to push what he just heard out of his head. He glances at his betrothed, who is currently shoveling cereal in his mouth like he’s afraid someone's going to take it away from him.

“And I just think it's rude,” Jay carries on. “I thought you had an agreement.”

“Mum, I really don't care, though,” Lottie assures her. “She had to pick one or the other, it’s fine.”

“Well, it's the principle of it.”

“I would sort of expect Kendall to endorse her sister's makeup line over mine?” Lottie says, laughing. “Like? I mean -- what do you think, Louis?”

“I dunno,” Louis says, glancing up. “What're you talking about?”

"Louis!"

“Leave him be,” Jay admonishes, "he's got all this wedding shit on his mind."

"No, no, tell me, I'm listening, I'm sorry --"

Mia returns from the loo with Karen and beelines for Louis, climbing onto his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. She's been clingy with him lately.

He kisses her on the cheek and hugs her close.

“Sweet,” Jay says, smiling at him.

Louis buries his face against his daughter’s tiny shoulder, against the soft fabric of the tacky tourist t-shirt she insisted on them buying her. Yesterday, Louis sent a photo of her in it to Harry, who is forever wanting them to dress her up like she's Blue Ivy, though Mia remains a stalwart tomboy to his great consternation. Harry sent him back, _If she grows up and becomes a rugby playing mechanic it is all your fault._

“I want breakfast,” Mia says decisively, and drops off his lap to take a seat next to him.

“Pancakes are on the way for you,” Liam tells her. “While you wait, loves, can you read me this article?” He hands her the paper and pointing at a section. “I'm not sure I understand it.”

Mia dutifully takes the paper and ponderously reads it aloud, tripping over every fourth word or so. Louis smiles at Liam, who winks back. This is an exercise they often do with her, to get her to practice reading while appealing to her pride at the same time. She's a brilliant reader already. Louis said this to Zayn a few months ago, and he'd seemed quite chuffed and said “You an’ me, we're both verbal like that,” and winked at him.

Zayn's been distant lately, which hurts Louis. He knows it has something to do with the wedding. Zayn is single right now, and it must be by choice, but he seems lonely all the same. He's been very doting on Mia, diverting all of his affections to her, and by extension he's been even softer and kinder with Louis. Louis has really been enjoying the time they spend together, or he had been, until the wedding drew close and Zayn grew icy and closed himself off.

Louis looks past the table, out the windows that stretch from floor to ceiling and to the beach. He wishes he were surfing right now.

 

*

 

When they return to their room, Louis initiates sex, wanting to feel close with Liam.

“Use a rubber,” Louis murmurs. Liam groans. “I'm sorry, Payno, it's these new pills, I've got a few days left before I can be sure they've kicked in --”

“Alright,” Liam says, kissing him on the jaw as he lowers him back against the decadently soft bed. Outside, the wind has picked up, and a palm tree whips at their window. “But --”

“But what?” Louis says, drawing back to look at him.

Liam looks sheepish. He kisses Louis, then shakes his head. “I dunno, if we just sort of said, like, whatever, and just -- weren't so safe --?”

“No!” Louis exclaims, lying back against the pillows. He's offended by the very suggestion. “D’you really think -- I don't want a honeymoon baby!”

“I know,” Liam backpedals, stroking his arm, “I know --”

“I want to enjoy our married life for a while,” Louis insists, his hands going protectively to his flat stomach, as if to shield his uterus from malevolent forces. “I want a baby with you, so much, but I just don't want… I dunno, I don't want to keep doin’ this by accident, y’know?”

Liam nods, and puts a condom on without saying anything else on the subject.

They have very slow, tender sex. It succeeds in getting Louis out of his head and away from his worries. He lies there and thinks about nothing but Liam as he moves in and out of him, as he kisses his sweet face and moves his fringe off his forehead and they smile at each other, slightly sweaty and deeply in love.

 

*

 

Louis enjoys the rehearsal dinner.

He wishes the actual wedding could be like this; softly lit, low-key, his family and his friends laughing, murmuring to each other and drinking freely, everyone in relatively normal clothes, no pressure. He likes how Liam looks tonight; mature and leisurely in a simple button-down, his beard neatly trimmed, his hair sleek with leave-in conditioner and his face slightly lined from lack of sleep. He keeps glancing at Louis, as if to make sure he’s enjoying himself.

“That’s your third beer,” he points out, later in the evening.

Louis laughs and says nothing. Across the room, Oli is attempting to teach Mia how to dance.

“You got a text while you were in the toilet,” Liam murmurs hesitantly. “Fred said the crew is working on moving the tents further up the beach, but they caught two fans trying to break into the resort grounds?”

Louis’ heart skips a beat and he groans, putting his face in his hands. “Oh, fuck, you weren’t supposed to see that…”

“Why not?” Liam says, stroking his back. “Why keep this from me, Tommo? I want to know these things. You’re so stressed out, let me help…”

“Because,” Louis mutters. “You’re such a big romantic, this is your fairytale day, you’ve been waitin’ for this forever. I feel like I’ve got to keep it special for you.”

“It _is_ special,” Liam assures him. “It’ll be special no matter what. We always knew this was going to be tough to organize, just ‘cos of who we are... I don’t care, I just want to marry you --”

Calvin and a few others come over, interrupting them, dividing Louis’ attention. Liam sits back in his seat patiently, looking at his phone, suddenly seeming very young. Louis remembers, with a stab of affection for him, that Liam is only twenty-six years old.

When his boys have gone, Louis reaches out and wraps his arm around Liam, settling against him and massaging the back of his neck.

“Let me handle this shit,” Louis says softly to him. “It makes me feel better to. I want you to get your perfect day. I don’t want you to deal with being scared or stressed.”

Liam nuzzles him. “But I want to protect _you_ …”

“I know, I know,” Louis says, feeling frustrated.

They fall into silence, sitting there in the dim light of the opulent and elegant reception hall. Tomorrow they'll be seated at a similar table outside, the ocean lapping at the beach nearby.

 

*

 

“Do you think about him a lot?” Nicky says to Zayn.

They’re rocking back and forth on Nicky’s sailboat in a San Diego harbor, the wind whipping them, matching each other glass for glass as they polish off an expensive bottle of rye whiskey. Zayn is slumped sideways, feeling the alcohol buzz in his brain, his sunglasses digging into his cheekbone as he leans his face against the arm of the chaise he’s sitting on.

Nicky’s got his laptop out and is watching E!. Zayn rolled away and cleared his throat when a story about Liam and Louis’ impending wedding came on.

Zayn digs in his pocket for a spliff and lights it, taking a lazy drag. Blissful numbness is overpowering him. “Mostly at night,” he mumbles honestly.

“You got feelings for him, still?” Nicky says, studying him. He reaches out, and Zayn passes the spliff to him.

“I dunno,” Zayn says, struggling to keep focused on this conversation. His fingers tighten on the cool glass in his hand. Another gust of wind rolls off the ocean and buffets them, blowing his hair back. “I guess.”

“He's got your kid,” Nicky says. “Makes sense. I like my ex-wife more just for being the mother of my children, you know? There's a connection there. Makes you a little soft on ‘em, if they're not a total piece of shit.”

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs, sipping his drink.

He thinks about Louis, about his soft thighs and his tinkly laugh, his cold eyes and his warm smile. Being the object of Louis' affection is like being loved by the sun itself; being spurned by him is like being exiled to a dark cellar, all the lights going off at once as you find yourself swallowed in an interminable silence.  

Zayn shouldn't miss him as much as he does. Deep in his heart he knows he's going too far with this, allowing himself to fall headlong into a tiger pit where old wounds and old self-pity lie sticky like tar at the bottom, but he doesn't want to stop.

“Your ex and her band just got papped at the Maui airport,” Nicky says.

Zayn's gut twists unpleasantly, but he shrugs.

“Harry, too, and that Jenner… the tall one...”

Zayn whips his head over at his manager. “They aren't, like, together, right?” he says, trying to play at nonchalance. He quickly googles Harry’s name, looking for evidence of this.

“Far as I know, nah,” Nicky says.

Zayn scrolls through recent results relating to Harry. He looks good, lean and pretty, as impeccably dressed as ever. In a few new pap photos, his green eyes shine with laughter as he examines tomatoes while chatting up some bloke at an L.A. farmer’s market. Zayn stares at his phone.

“I get why you didn't want to go to this thing,” Nicky says sympathetically. “Fucking minefield.”

Zayn nods.

 

*

 

Louis wakes Liam up early again the day of their wedding.

For about a half-hour they just lie there, speaking quietly. Louis is beginning to feel the gravity of the day, deep in him, a ball of weighty magnitude that sits heavy in his gut and spine. Liam strokes his hair with careful hands, kissing him on his forehead and the bow of his lips and between his eyes, like he can scarcely believe that it's happening.

They go on a walk on Makena, their toes sinking into the white sand. It's still cool; the sun isn't quite up yet. Louis looks across the vast expanse of glimmering dark water, pulling in and out. He feels that the tide speaks to something in him, that it soothes the fluttering in his heart and the tingling in his palms.

Louis leans heavily against Liam, who pulls him close and kisses him on the top of the head. Louis likes that he's tall enough to do that. In heels, Eleanor was too. He realizes it's been months since he's even thought of her.

They don't speak now. They communicate without words, walking further from the massive gleaming resort they've rented out for their guests and further toward the remote spot where they'll be married later that day.

Louis leads him to an outcropping of rock, framed by palms, where the cool wind blows off the sea in gentle gusts. He looks at Liam, tosses his towel down, then pulls him down onto the sand, behind the rocks, where they can't be seen from the water.

Liam understands him. As the sun begins to peek over the distant horizon, casting a purple glow on everything around them, Liam disrobes and pulls Louis’ swimming shorts off, leaning down and taking his cock nimbly into his mouth. Louis lets out a sigh, gripping Liam’s hair. His mouth feels fantastic. His tongue lightly teases Louis, working up his shaft and over the tip, flicking where all the nerve endings are. Louis tightens his fingers, egging him on.

“You're such a good cocksucker,” he breathes, and Liam glances up at him with a pleased expression, then takes him deeper.

Louis’ head rolls back against the gritty sand. His hips buck up against the thin fabric of the towel. He stares at the rocky outcrop that stretches above them and at the blue sky, watching palm leaves wave in the corners of his vision. He listens to the soft, obscene sounds of Liam sucking him off, and the waves crashing against the beach.

His fingers tighten on the towel, trying to find purchase despite the soft sand underneath it. He gasps as pressure builds wonderfully in his pelvis.

Louis tells Liam he's going to come, and Liam takes him even deeper, leans over him with dogged intent.

“Not too deep,” Louis tells him in a low, aroused voice, pushing back on his shoulder. Liam moves off of him slightly. “You don't need a sore throat today…”

He leans back again and lets out a little whine. Liam grips his thighs, hard, and then slides them under his arse and squeezes. Louis gives a laugh that turns into a rumbly moan.

He comes just as the sun is beginning to peek halfway over the ocean.

“We ought to get back,” he murmurs. “Oli’ll be looking for me, and the planner --”

“No, no,” Liam says, spitting out his come into the sand and then kissing him aggressively on the lips, pushing him down so the back of his head is shoved uncomfortably against the sand. Louis feels a pleasant tingle behind his belly button.

“I want to come,” Liam says throatily. “Or it's all I'll be able to think about, and then later I'm going to fuck you in the toilet or something.”

“That's fair,” Louis says, grinning. "Though they have got great bathrooms here, mind."

Liam guides Louis’ hand to his cock, but Louis shakes his head and spreads his legs. He reaches over, and pulls a rubber from the pocket of his discarded swim trunks.

“You sure?” Liam whispers, smiling. “We've got a whole honeymoon for that… it'll take longer…”

“You can go fast,” Louis says, stroking his hair. He's heady and blissed out from his orgasm, the sound of the ocean, and all the sunshine that's been pumping into his system for days.

They make rushed but tender love there on the beach. Louis watches as the sun continues its slow slide up the horizon, and the light around them brightens. He slides his arm over Liam's shoulders, behind his head, stroking his neck with his thumb as Liam moves in him. His engagement band shines on his finger.

He was the one who proposed to Liam, eighteen months after they'd gotten together. He'd surprised him at his studio, as he so often does, sneaked up behind him and slid the headphones off his head. Liam had swiveled around in surprise, raising his eyebrows, his face blank and unknowing.

Louis got on one knee, and held up a ring. Liam lit up like Christmas.

“My turn, Payno,” he'd said, grinning.

 

*

 

Harry is sitting in the front lounge with Niall when Louis and Liam burst back in, a bit frantic. Louis’ back is covered in sand, as well as Liam’s shins and knees. They're both pink in the cheek.

“Hi, One Direction,” Louis shouts as they hurry toward the elevator. Liam waves at them, disheveled and embarrassed.

“Hi One Direction,” Niall says back, laughing. When they're gone, he turns to Harry, who's picking at a salad. “D’you think they just got it in on the beach?”

“I’d say it’s fairly likely,” Harry intones, glancing at his phone. His mum’s just texted him that her flight’s in.

He texts her a thumbs up emoji and continues what he was doing, which was looking through the two-story high front windows at the empty beach in front of them, examining the people walking by to see if he knows them.

Niall picks at his omelette, then follows Harry’s gaze and reads his mind like he often does. “Going to be weird to see all these people… blast from the past.”

“Might be nice,” Harry says. He drums his fingers on the table. “I sort of thought they'd have a smaller one.”

“Nah,” Niall says, shaking his head. “You know Liam, he can't say no to anybody.”

“Neither can you, but you keep saying yours’ll be little,” Harry points out.

“Only ‘cos Barb's only specification is ‘no spectacle’. I could probably have it in Mullingar if I liked.”

“Is she upstairs?”

“Yeah, with Cara and Kendall an’ them.”

Harry grins. “I heard Louis snubbed Gigi?”

“He did,” Niall affirms with a chuckle, sipping his mimosa. Harry holds his hand out, and Niall gives it over. Harry downs the rest in one go.

“Jesus,” Niall comments. “Could have ordered your own, Harold.”

“Noo, I'm doing my drinking later,” Harry says, smiling. “When the reception’s begun.”

“I'm drinkin’ all day,” Niall exclaims. “This shit makes me feel old. We can't be getting married. I was eighteen like two days ago, I’d swear on it.”

“If it eases your mind, I don't think I'll ever do it,” Harry says. “Too jumbly legally. Not as fun as it sounds.”

“But you get to throw a big party,” Niall says. The waiter brings them another mimosa, and he accepts it gratefully.

“I do that all the time anyway,” Harry counters. He fiddles with his placemat. He'd like to change the subject, but he feels awkward about broaching it.

“I was afraid Zayn might come,” he finally says.

“Right… me too, honestly.” Niall studies him. “When’d you see ‘im last?”

Harry goes quiet, thinking. The lounge is empty except for them and staff; everyone else is in the dining room, or upstairs getting ready. Their quiet conversation is the only sound besides the faint clink of dishes being washed and the murmuring of staff.

“Last month,” he finally says. “At a party. He left when he saw me. It was a small one… we’d have been in close quarters...”

“Awkward,” Niall says, distracted, glancing at his phone. He sets it down and adds, “Last time you talked, though?”

Harry chuckles. “The last Grammys,” he says. “I went out with Liam into the alley to talk and he came out the same door to smoke… looked at us, went ‘Jesus Christ’ and went back in.”

Niall snorts. "You know how I mean talked -- like, you also spoke words, mate."

Harry of course knew this, but wanted to see how much hedging he could get away with. He clears his throat.

“Last time I actually said anything to him was before he left the band,” he says. His stomach tightens. Niall seems surprised at this, squinting at him and letting out a low whistle.

“But when he found out…” Harry trails off, tightens his jaw and tries again. “When he found out he’d got Louis pregnant, he tried to call me a bunch of times. He texted me he was sorry... I didn't say anything back.”

His stomach lurches thinking about the days immediately following Zayn’s departure, how he barely ate and wept alone in his room, not even wanting Niall to comfort him; how Louis continually tried to talk to him about it, and how Harry had rebuffed him, having no idea that the two of them had been together, thinking Louis couldn't possibly understand how he felt. Then, abruptly, there had been the kicker of Louis’ pregnancy -- Harry's parting gift from Zayn, one final shot across his bow.

The things Harry believed only he had had with him: the sleepless late nights spent intertwined in naked intimacy, Zayn's hand trailing up his thigh, Zayn's hand on his cock, Zayn inside of him -- Louis had had it all too, and had taken it all a step further, had borne Zayn a child. What's more, he’d had to do this right in front of Harry, on tour where Harry was forced to be near him constantly, all while he was still stinging from the raw newness of his loss.

Even as he was wallowing in the selfish idea of being uniquely jilted and spurned, being singular in his grief, Zayn had found a way to twist the knife from afar, a way to leave Harry with a constant painful reminder that he had never been special after all.

Harry stopped crying, after that. He started meditating instead, and found ways to avoid looking at Louis the moment he began to show.

“Pisser,” Niall says, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

Harry shrugs. “Hey… he’s not here, is he?” he says lightly.

Niall nods. Harry returns to his salad.

 

*

 

The ceremony is meant to start a half hour before the sun sets, so their most important photos are all taken in the golden hour. Louis has planned this aspect meticulously. Then everyone is driven in golf carts a short distance up the beach, to the tents under which the dance floor, band and catering will be.

Louis has overseen all of this with an iron fist. Save for a few exceptions, every time Liam’s tried to get in on the planning, he’s shooed him away. He trusts Liam's judgment implicitly, but he wants Liam to to be like a kid in a candy shop this weekend, constantly entertained and happy, continually stumbling on new and exciting surprises.

He's talking softly with the head of catering Francoise about their deconstructed fish and chips entree when there's a soft knock at the door.

“Come in,” Louis calls. Francoise busies himself with his phone.

Liam walks in, slightly pink in the cheeks as if he's been in the sun. “I've just been to the market,” he says, smiling. His hands are behind his back. “I had a weird spam pineapple thing?”

“Give us just a sec, Payno. So…” Louis says, glancing at a menu mockup Francoise handed him a moment ago. “I thought we talked about this, the font on this one is _way_ too small,” he says. “We've got elderly and the nearsighted in attendance.”

“My apologies, Mr Tomlinson, I'll have my staff distribute the other version.”

“Excellent.”

“It will be the cream white instead of the egg white, then, but both have the gold gilt.”

“That’s absolutely fine. Thanks for all your help, mate.”

Francoise excuses himself, pushing past Liam, who’s been waiting patiently.

“I'm sorry, babe,” Louis says. “C'mere…”

Liam waves off his apology and comes close. From behind his back, he produces a single gorgeous white lily.

“I know you said you didn't want to do a bouquet type thing,” Liam says. “But I saw this, and I thought of you… if you wanted?”

Louis takes it, touched.

“It's beautiful,” he says softly.

Liam leans in and kisses his forehead.

“Stop stressing,” he mumbles against Louis’ hairline.

“I'll try,” Louis promises. “Can you take this downstairs and have them put it in the fridge with the rest of the flowers? Tell them what it's for.”

“Who do I tell?”

“Magda. She's very old and properly tall, it's hard to miss her.”

“On it,” Liam says, stroking his hair. Louis covers Liam's hand with his own.

“Where's the kid?” he says.

“At the beach with Jay, making sand castles. I was about to join them, actually.”

Louis wishes very much that he could come too, but he knows he’s got too many loose ends to sew up. “Alright,” he says. “Remember, suits on by five.”

Liam salutes him and departs.

 

*

 

Mia rings Zayn as the sun is going down in Los Angeles.

He’s on a lounge chair on his patio, watching it sink down over the hills and the distant water. After drinking all day, he’s been dozing in and out of a stupor for a few hours. His mouth and eyes are dry, but inertia keeps him glued to his seat. He checks his texts obsessively. It’s all people wanting to hook up, or his work contacts wanting things from him; demos, samples, paperwork signed, or for a comment to the press on Liam and Louis’ wedding.

She rings him from Louis’ phone. He nearly doesn’t pick up because of that, but then he thinks that Louis knows how he feels about this fucking wedding and wouldn’t be ringing him if something wasn’t wrong, so he grabs for his phone at the last second, fumbling it in his urgency.

“‘Lo?”

“Hi Daddy,” she chirps in his ear.

“Baby,” Zayn murmurs, his body flooding in relief and joy at hearing her voice and not her father’s. “Hi. Why’re you calling?”

“To say hello,” she says. “Hullo!”

“Hi,” he says, smiling. His heart aches. “What time is it there?”

“I dunno.”

“Where’s Louis?”

“He’s with Liam. I’m with Nan.”

“Hi, Zayn,” he hears Jay call. “We’re downstairs, trying to get everyone rounded up. She stole my son’s phone right out of his trousers.”

Zayn grins to himself. “That’s my girl,” he says.

“Where are you?” Mia says to him, petulantly. “Why didn’t you come?”

“I’m in Los Angeles, I’ve got a lot of work to do,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay,” she says, reluctantly. “I love you.”

“I love you too, angel.”

She hangs up with him.

Zayn leaves his phone lying against his chest, and fumbles for his beer on the table beside him. It occurs to him how long it's been since he last prayed.

 

*

 

Liam starts getting more and more gray-faced and nervy as Louis is trying to get him out the door to the ceremony. Finally, he ends up vomiting.

“Payno,” Louis murmurs soothingly, stroking his back as he bends over the sink, brushing his teeth and rinsing his mouth. “I'm not _that_ bad, am I?”

Liam laughs. “The spam thing didn't sit right,” he assures him. “I feel loads better now.”

He stands up and turns around. Louis rubs his thumb over the bow of Liam's full lips to get rid of a fleck of toothpaste. He places his hands on Liam's chest, where his heart flutters beneath his ribcage.

“Are you getting anxious, though?” he says softly.

“A bit,” Liam admits. “It's a big moment.”

“Me too,” Louis says. “Big fuckin’ moment.”

Liam leans down and kisses him.

“Once more into the breach, or whatever,” Louis says, smiling up at him. Liam's eyes twinkle.

 

*

 

They make their way down to the great hall where everyone has gathered. They’ve got to keep splitting up to greet at least fifty each of their individual friends, and then come back together in between to greet the hundred or so of their mutual ones. Liam seems to have forgotten his anxiety for now and is flush-faced, cheerful and at his best, entertaining everyone with quips about Louis and marriage. Louis is more subdued than usual in comparison, and is happy just observing him or standing at his side.

Right before they’re about to leave for the beach, Mia finds him in the crowd and hugs his legs. He bends down and kisses her on the head.

Jay finds him then as well, and Lou appears behind her with Lux in tow.

“Hey, fam,” he says, laughing. He picks Mia up and settles her on his hip.

“Where’d your husband?” Lou says, reaching out to fix his fringe. “Sorry, fiancé! You act so married already.”

Louis squints across the milling crowd, made up of smaller groups of people who are all talking loudly and noshing on the hors d'oeuvres that are being passed around. “Uh… chatting up Jordan Payton, looks like?”

“Ooh, better put a stop to that,” Lou teases.

“Paul’s like a foot away from ‘em, don’t think I have much to worry about,” Louis says with a grin.

Jay laughs.

“Where’s Zayn?” Lux interrupts.

Louis takes a breath and clings to his daughter a bit more tightly. “Couldn’t make it, love,” he says. “It happens.”

“That’s weird,” Lux says. “He ought to be here. Everyone else is.”

“I thought so too,” Louis mutters.

“Want to get this crowd moving?” Jay interrupts, looking at Louis with a certain sympathy in her eyes. He glances away, not wanting it.

“Right, good idea,” he says, hitching his arms up so Mia is more comfortably settled. She reaches out and circles her arms around his shoulders, saying nothing. She’s preternaturally quiet for a four-year-old sometimes, already so reminiscent of Zayn in her long silences and distant looks.

In the car park, Louis finds Liam before they get into their separate limos.

“Last chance for cold feet,” Louis says quietly, straightening Liam’s bowtie. Liam scoffs at him and smooths his hands over his shoulders.

“Please,” he says, shaking his head.

Louis tries to ignore his peripheral vision. “Christ, everyone’s watchin’ us,” he murmurs.

“Aren’t they always?” Liam says, cupping Louis’ jaw and smoothing his thumb over his cheekbone. Louis looks at him, looks into his sweet dark eyes and tries to focus on nothing else. He reaches up and grips Liam’s wrist.

“I just want it to be tonight already,” he says. “Is that terrible? I just want to be alone with you and be married.”

“We’ll get there soon enough,” Liam says, laughing. “You know how these things go. We’ll be so busy we’ll barely get to eat.”

“I know…”

Niall walks by, and Louis grabs him by the arm.

“Hey,” he says, a bit emotionally, and pulls him in for a hug. Niall seems surprised at this, but squeezes him.

“I’ve got me toast all memorized, don’t worry,” Niall assures him.

“We weren’t,” Liam says, squeezing his shoulder.

Niall draws back from Louis. “Ay, congratulations,” he says warmly. “Big day, lads.”

“Very,” Liam says, smiling.

Niall waves cheerfully as he departs. He falls in step with a passing Harry and Nick, who both wave as well. Harry seems preoccupied with something.

“Might as well get on with it,” Liam says, nudging Louis with his thigh. Louis sighs and nods vigorously.

“I do really want the wedding part,” Louis says. “I should say that. I want, like, the ceremony, and the vows and our first dance, all that. Just feel a bit weird having so many people here, is all. But I’ve made my mind up to just focus on you, totally.”

Liam grins at him. “Not like I can complain about that.”

“Right,” Louis says, and punches him gently in the arm. “So, you up for this, Payno?”

“Fuck yeah,” Liam says, kissing him fast on the mouth, and fixing his fringe the same way Lou did. The humidity of the island keeps making it fall slightly down toward his eyes. “See you soon.”

Louis’ heart skips a beat. “We really are about to do the thing, aren’t we?”

“We are,” Liam affirms happily, as he walks away toward his limo, where his parents are waiting.

Louis watches him go with a small smile on his lips.

“Daddy,” Mia yells.

He turns and sees her poking her head out of his limo’s window.

“Sweets,” he says, walking over. “What’s up?”

“Nan said you’re gonna miss your damn wedding,” she relays, to the hysterical laughter of everyone in the car.

“Well,” Louis says, mock-exasperated, “everyone budge up, then!”

He opens the door and slides in.

 

*

 

It was Jay’s idea for them both to be walked from the sides to the center, by their mums, after they couldn’t agree on who should wait at the end of the aisle.

“Let’s do it like a Jewish wedding,” Jay had exclaimed, but Louis had complained that he wanted them to meet in the middle, so that’s what they did.

The beach is gorgeous; the sand perfectly white, the sky clear, the salty air blowing in gently and wafting around the thick, perfumey scents of the native flowers they chose to be pinned to the backs of each seat and on the wedding arch itself.

Mia does a fantastic and very solemn job as the flower girl, traipsing slowly up the aisle and sprinkling it liberally for the waiting groomsmen behind her. Neither Louis or Liam wanted to single out any of their friends for best man, and so they both chose their sisters to do the job instead. Louis shares a grin with Lottie as she takes her place by where he’ll be standing in a moment, and thinks he’s quite happy with this decision.

Before either of them are really ready, Sandy and his backing band have struck up their punk, Ramones-inspired version of _Baby, I Love You_ that signals Louis and Liam to start walking toward each other.

“Shit,” Louis says under his breath. Jay laughs and squeezes his arm.

He looks at Liam across the way. He can’t quite make out the details of his expression from this distance, but he can tell he’s grinning, his teeth brilliant white in the sunshine. Louis beams back at him. His heart is pounding in his chest, and gooseflesh rises to the surface of his skin. He clutches a single lily in his sweaty palm.

The beat of the music gets under his flesh and into his bones, the way it does at the best shows they've played, propelling him forward. He's walking on air as he approaches Liam, seeing only him, behind him a blur of white fabric blowing in the wind and white sand glimmering under the sun as his wonderful smiling face getting closer and closer.

He's breathless by the time they're within feet of each other. Liam is crying, tears streaming down his face despite his smile.

They close the gap. Their mums politely hand them off to each other and then head for their seats, Jay scooping up Mia as she goes.

Liam's eyes shine with happy tears. Louis hears nothing but the rushing of the ocean and the beat of his own heart in his ears.

“Hi,” he whispers.

“Hey,” Liam murmurs back.

Louis presses his hand to Liam's chest, through his tuxedo. His heart pounds away furiously. He brings Liam's hand to his chest, where his own is doing the same, and then gently smooths the tears off of Liam's prickly, just-shaven cheek with his thumb.

Their audience _awws_. Louis starts a bit. He nearly forgot they were there.

“Reckoned you'd get all weepy on me,” Louis says hoarsely, getting rather choked up himself.

“I knew I would, too,” Liam says, and laughs.

“Any day now, lads,” Oli whispers encouragingly. Ruth and Lottie both snort.

“Oh shit, right,” Louis says, and they both turn to look at the patiently waiting minister -- a tall and kind-eyed Hawaiian man with intense gravitas, whom they both liked immediately. The crowd chuckles.

“Dearly beloved,” the minister begins, “we are gathered here today to witness the union of Liam Payne and Louis Tomlinson in holy matrimony.”

Despite having heard all of this in rehearsals, Louis is dizzied by the phrase _holy matrimony._

Liam reaches out and takes both his hands, then gently squeezes, grounding and steadying him. Louis takes a deep breath and looks away from the minister as he continues, gazing at his now and future husband instead. Liam looks back at him, his dark eyes unwavering, smiling irrepressibly.

Louis grins back.

 

*

 

Neither of them felt like straying from the traditional vows too much, but they both wanted to write their own versions. They haven't seen each other's work yet; they've each been sneaky about it.

The minister finally gets around to that bit and Louis finds himself bouncing on his heels with happy excitement. He just wants his ring on and to be able to snog Liam, already.

Liam is cued first and slips a piece of paper out of his breast pocket, clearing his throat.

“So,” he says, half-addressing the guests and half-addressing his fiancé. “Louis and I already live together, have for quite a while. We've really sort of lived together on and off for ten years now, if you count tours…”

“I do,” Harry shouts, and then Perrie and Jesy chorus “Us too!” together, to everyone's amusement.

Liam chuckles. “And we've been raising an absolutely brilliant kid together all this time. So when I looked at the standard vows, with all the have and to hold stuff, I sort of thought, well, we've really already promised each other all this. So I added some things that are more personal.”

He glances down and begins to read.

“I, Liam, take thee, Louis, to be my wedded husband,” Liam begins. Louis gets choked up again at these words alone. “To care for and protect, from this day forward. To always cherish you and make you laugh, to always remember where our relationship came from… us blowing off steam together, having fun together, and taking shelter in each other from situations outside our control. I promise to always be your shelter, to always keep our home and our relationship a safe harbor.”

Liam's voice begins to waver with emotion, and Louis squeezes his hand.

“I promise to keep taking care of you and your daughter, in sickness and in health, no matter the situation, till death do us part. And I promise to be faithful and loving to you always, as your husband, and honor you forever.”

This is met with much applause. Louis’ heart is so warm and full in his chest that he nearly forgets he’s got to do his own vows. Liam gazes at him, teary but smiling.

“You got lucky with going first,” he grumbles, “I'm all mixed up now.”

They all laugh at this too, especially the groomsmen. Louis pulls out the folded paper from his own breast pocket, his hands a bit jumpy from nerves.

“I, Louis, take thee, Liam, to be my lawfully wedded husband,” he says, marveling at the formality of the words as he says them. “To always bring joy into your life, to make you laugh, and to protect and defend you. I promise to appreciate you and all you do, every day, to make our lives easier and to defend me.”

Now Louis is the one whose emotions are getting him wobbly. He takes a shallow breath. One tear escapes Liam's eye and he drops Louis’ hand to swipe at it, then grabs it again, hard.

“I promise to never forget to enjoy your company, to cherish what we've got and never take it for granted,” Louis continues, his voice throaty and cracking a bit. “And to love you til the day I die, ‘cos I insist on going first.”

There are chuckles at this, and then more when Liam murmurs, “Well, you are older,” and smiles at him.

“And I promise to always be faithful to you, to do right by you, and to honor and respect our marriage every day,” Louis finishes.

Liam swallows with difficulty. He’s getting too soppy now, Louis can tell, so he bops him on the noise with the lily in his hand, and they both begin laughing.

“Now, please face one another and join hands,” says the minister. “Oh, oops, I'm just reading the script, you already did that.”

Everyone laughs at this. Liam strokes Louis’ hand with his thumb.

“Liam Payne, do you take Louis Tomlinson to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to honor him in love, to be sensitive to his needs, to comfort him in difficulty, and to put your full and complete trust in him, so long as you both shall live?”

Liam nods very hard. “I do,” he promises.

“Already have,” Louis mouths. Liam gives a small, breathy laugh.

“Louis Tomlinson, do you take Liam Payne to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to honor him in love, to be sensitive to his needs, to comfort him in difficulty, and to put your full and complete trust in him, so long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Louis swears with passion, squeezing Liam's hands powerfully hard. “Can I kiss him now?”

The minister’s eyes twinkle. “Yes, go ahead.”

Louis pulls Liam down into a deep, tender kiss. Liam squeezes Louis around the waist and lifts him onto his tiptoes. Louis presses his hands to Liam's stubbly jaw, his heart going like mad in his chest with happiness.

Liam separates from him and drops a sweet kiss on his nose. Everyone cheers. Lottie and Oli whoop, and she winks at him.

“Now you can go ahead and exchange the rings...”

 

*

 

“I sorta feel about the boys from One Direction like a lot of you probably feel about your best uni friends,” Niall says into the mic.

The sun has gone down now, after drifting that way all through the ceremony, spreading gorgeous pinks and violets across the still sky and casting the ocean with a velvety darkness. Hundreds of candles light up the reception tents, filling the air with the faint smell of vanilla. A gentle breeze blows in off the beach, ruffling Louis’ hair.

He sits at the grooms’ table with Mia on his lap and Liam's arm stretched out behind him, both of them watching Niall fondly.

“Like, we spent five years together, basically livin’ on the same hall, and then got a few breaks in there each year,” Niall says. “I s'pose it’s like if you went to uni with just four of your mates, an’ all your classes were together, and you went to class seventy hours a week. An’ you had to hide from your fans constantly, and got to travel the entire world. An’ then one of you dropped out in the middle of your last year. An’ you were all too dumb or busy to go to uni for real, but it's alright ‘cos you were already millionaires.”

This gets a loud laugh. Louis grins.

“But I'll always feel like the three of you are my brothers for life,” Niall continues, “and then there's, like, one random bloke out there who just knows way too much about me and what my farts smell like…”

Everyone laughs more uproariously at this, as if they're relieved to finally be able to have a laugh about Zayn after all this time. Niall’s voice has a slight bitter edge to it, though, one that most people wouldn't pick up on. Louis and Harry exchange a brief glance.

“Anyway, Liam and Louis’ wedding means a lot to me, ‘cos they really sorta taught me what love is,” Niall continues. “We were all so young when they first got together, and I didn't know it was possible yet, t’ think someone was so great that you can be backstage three nights in a row holdin’ their in-ears out of the way while they barf from mornin’ sickness, and still want to have sex with ‘em.”

Louis snorts appreciatively and strokes Liam's hand where it rests on his shoulder. His wedding band still feels strange and heavy on his finger. There's a solemnity to it as an object that he's entranced by.

Mia is engrossed with a handheld game on her lap, not listening to Niall. She's been very well-behaved tonight.

“But to be serious,” Niall continues, “I've never known two blokes who thought more highly of each other. I'm pretty sure, like, Liam an’ Louis both think of each other as actual geniuses and t’ literal best people in the world. I’m not gonna break the truth to ‘em, ‘cos I love ‘em both…”

Louis flashes Niall the finger with a grin, and chuckles go up, most loudly from Liam.

“I don't know if either of you are actual geniuses, but who am I to say?” Niall says. “Not a Fulbright scholar, meself. Two of the greatest blokes I've ever met, absolutely. Totally deserving of each other's love, absolutely. You're a great couple, you're a great pair of leaders, an’ you’re gonna crush it at marriage. I've had an amazing time working with you this last ten years, it's been brilliant. Here's to your partnership becomin’, like, legally official, not that it really needs it. Can't wait to be in your camp when the zombie apocalypse comes, lads. Cheers.”

Everyone clinks their glasses. Niall hands the mic off to Oli and settles back in his seat, slipping his arm around Barbara.

Louis mouths _thank you_ at Niall, his throat tight with love for him. Niall inclines his head and gives him a thumbs up, smiling broadly.

 

*

 

Louis is getting a bit tired by the time they’ve got to have their first dance, and leans on Liam throughout it. Liam holds him up with strong arms, allowing him to be as lethargic a partner as he wants.

“Are we in Italy yet?” Louis murmurs, face pressed to his chest.

Liam laughs, and Louis enjoys the rumble of it in his chest. “Twenty-four hours to go, Tommo.”

“Why did I think a tour of the whole country was a good idea, again? I’m so fuckin’ sleepy… let’s divert the plane to the Maldives, alright?”

“Bit late for that, but you can sleep the whole flight,” Liam assures him.

Louis is silent for a moment, as they sway back and forth to _Catch The Wind._  The breeze that blows past them on its way off the beach has grown chillier. “D’you think it’s odd that Zayn didn’t want to take Mia for the honeymoon?”

He keeps his voice low when he says this. Other couples are joining them on the dancefloor, now, including Liam’s parents, his sister and brother-in-law, and Jay and Dan.  

“Oh, I dunno,” Liam says. “He’s been busy…”

“He’s acted so off about this whole wedding,” Louis mutters.

Liam tenses in his arms, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says quickly, feeling like an utter heel. “God, never mind. I’m sorry --”

“Noo, Tommo, don’t worry about it --”

“He’s just always been so willing to take her, before --”

Liam shakes his head, then kisses Louis on the forehead.

“It is what it is,” he says, a bit weakly, like it’s supposed to be funny but he doesn’t believe it really is.

Louis looks up at his husband, his face lit warmly by the blowing candles, his arm wrapped firmly around Louis’ waist.

“Alright,” Louis says softly, and lets it go.

They dance together for a few more songs, wrapped tightly and intimately around each other, oblivious to everyone around them -- all the laughter and talking just warm background noise.

Finally they begin to grow stiff from clinging to each other in slow dance position for so long. They separate, laughing softly to themselves, still sort of overcome from the heightened emotions of the day.

Niall is dancing with Harry nearby, and Louis taps him on the arm.

“Can I cut in?”

Niall offers Louis his arm, and Louis shakes his head and grins. “I want Harold,” he says, pointing at him. Niall chuckles and makes his way to Liam. They exchange goofy bows before starting to dance.

Harry seems pleasantly surprised as Louis takes him by the hands and begins to lead.

“Having fun?” he says, smiling at Louis.

“Think I’m supposed to ask _you_ that,” Louis says cheekily. “As the host.”

“I am,” Harry assures him. “It’s a lovely wedding. You did a great job.”

Louis is pleased by Harry’s correct estimation that he was responsible for the vast bulk of the planning.

“And I haven’t even seen any helicopters,” Harry points out.

“Right, well --” Louis laughs. “You’ll like this -- I talked to some locals at the hotel this morning, and they told me that this spot on the beach, ‘cos of this weird fluke in the terrain, when the wind kicks up it’s got this really bad upward gust that would send a helicopter overhead like, tilting and wheeling. So, I had security move the tents to that exact spot.”

“Clever!” Harry says appreciatively.

“I thought so,” Louis says, smiling.

“You never said if you were having fun,” Harry points out, as they move across the floor. They make a good pair for dancing. Harry’s lighter on his feet than Liam is.

“Absolutely,” Louis assures him. “It’s been amazing, this entire evening. I, um…”

He shakes his head.

“Wish Zayn was here, sort of,” he says ruefully. “I know you’re probably glad he isn’t.”

“Honestly? Yes,” Harry says, sounding strained and lowering his voice even more, so Louis can scarcely hear him. “And you ought to be too.”

“I dunno,” Louis says. “Whatever, let’s not -- we shouldn’t talk about him --”

“Agreed.”

They exchange an uncomfortable look. A waiter comes by with a tray of Mai Tais at the perfect moment, and they each grab one. The rims of the glasses are sprinkled with coconut dust and gold leaf, with more gold in the drink itself, which Louis thinks is a bit over the top. He makes eye contact with Liam across the floor and indicates the drink in his hand, mouthing, _You pick these?_

Liam laughs and nods, then twirls Niall. Louis snorts fondly and downs half of it in one go.

“Slow down there,” Harry says, his voice light and his hand pressed firmly but dispassionately to the small of Louis’ back. “We’ve got a long day of golf tomorrow, don’t we?”

Louis nods and glances to his left, where Oli is dancing with Mia’s feet on his feet, her pink tulle dress glowing warmly in the candlelight. Her face is bright.

Harry follows his gaze and smiles.

“Four’s a nice age,” he murmurs. “They're so sweet around then.”

“D’you want one?” Louis asks him, observing his face. Over his twinkling eyes, Harry’s eyebrows knit, and a shadow crosses his face.

“You offering yours?” he says drily.

Louis laughs. “I mean in general.”

“Of course,” Harry says. “It’s just I’m twenty-five.”

“I know,” Louis says. “I didn’t mean immediately.”

He feels the alcohol sinking into him, loosening his muscles and his mouth.

“You’d probably have like, the easiest pregnancy ever,” he mutters, surprising himself. “Probably’d barely show…”

Harry glances at him.

“Sorry,” Louis adds. “I don’t know why that came out so, like, bitter.”

“Everything isn’t so easy for me, Louis,” Harry says, his voice sharp. Louis winces.

“I know, I know… of course I know that...”

Harry makes the conciliatory gesture of sliding his arm around Louis’ shoulders and pulling him closer. Louis experiences a reflexive stab of anxiety before he remembers there’s no one here who will take this the wrong way.

“What happened to us?” he says, feeling safe enough to say it in this temporary intimacy between them. “We were so tight… I mean, I know what happened, but…”

Harry strokes his hair. “Things happen,” he says, his voice rough. “Life happens.”

“I feel like I went and made it even worse,” Louis whispers. “Like it was already difficult with us and I just -- this shit with Zayn -- we haven’t recovered, have we?”

“I love you,” Harry says softly. “Even when we don’t talk for a while, or we’re angry, I do love you.”

“I know, mate, me too…”

They sway there for a few moments in silence, listening to the general chatter around them.

“It isn't just you and me,” Louis says, his voice choked and hoarse. “I came between Liam and Zayn, too.”

He doesn’t particularly want to discuss this right now, but the words spill out of him as if Harry’s touch is drawing his long-buried regrets to the surface.

“That wasn’t _your_ fault,” Harry whispers. “Trust me.”

“You’re being too nice to me,” Louis says, looking up at him.

Harry squints at him. “It’s your wedding day,” he says, bemused.

 _All of Me_ comes on, then, and Louis immediately looks for Liam, who has always associated this song with him. He finds Liam is looking for him for the same reason, and they smile at each other.

Niall and Harry hand the newlyweds back to each other; Harry goes to snatch Kendall off of Perrie’s hands for a dance, and Niall returns to Barbara.

“What were you talking about?” Liam says quietly, as he takes Louis back in his arms.

“Nothin’,” Louis says, shaking his head.

Liam nods, and doesn’t pry.


	2. PART II

Louis starts snogging Liam the second they're back in their suite, dragging him across the length of it, past the opulent furniture, the flowers, and the congratulatory bottles of Dom waiting for them. He pulls him into the bathroom, and Liam assumes they're headed for the shower, but then they stop in the center of the room and Louis’ arse feels so good under his fingers and they're kissing so deep. He’s got no desire to move.

Louis pulls back just the slightest to instruct him breathlessly, “Fuck me right here, do me on the counter --”

Liam moans in response, holding him tighter. “Do I need --”

“Aye, yeah, still need a rubber…” Louis pants, “sorry, love…”

Liam handily hides his disappointment over this. He wants a baby with Louis so badly, he has a spasmodic fantasy that one night Louis will just come over crazed and tell him _fuck it, forget the condom, forget the pills, who cares_ \--

Liam fetches one anyway, and some lube, and as soon as he returns he's enveloped again in the desperate press of their bodies -- their married bodies -- Louis’ strong hands and thighs clinging to his shoulders and wrapped around his waist, his musical moans and sighs loud in Liam's ears.

Louis hops up onto the counter, and they pull each other’s suits off in a series of mutual aggressive yanks on the expensive fabric. Louis rips Liam’s tuxedo shirt open, causing two buttons to clatter to the bathroom floor. Liam is breathless with arousal. He rubs his cock against the counter, craving the pressure, as he pushes a finger into Louis and grabs his hair with his other hand. Louis gasps and his mouth goes to Liam’s throat, sucking like he aims to leave a mark.

Liam pushes into Louis, closing his eyes as he does, groaning with pleasure. Louis grips him hard, raking his nails up Liam’s back and crossing his legs behind him, pressing his calves to Liam’s arse.

They fuck passionately there, sending objects on the counter bouncing into the sink, Louis banging his elbow off the mirror behind them and Liam banging his knee off the cabinets, neither of them much caring. Liam doesn’t feel the radiating ache in his knee, just the gratifying sting of Louis’ nails against the skin of his back, the wonderful clench of the muscles inside Louis around his cock, and Louis’ hair clutched in his fingers.

He comes with a gasp and thrusts into the final few throes of his orgasm, the muscles in his thighs quaking. They breathe hard inches from each other’s face, and then kiss again. Liam pulls the rubber from himself, ties it off and tosses it in the bin.

“We’re ma-arried,” Louis sings in a ragged voice, and sucks at his bottom lip filthily. Liam grunts and heaves him off the counter, dragging him into the bedroom as he cackles, and then lies him down across the sheets and sucks his cock.

 

*

 

Harry is exhausted by the time he returns to his room, his mind hazy with liquor and his feet aching from breaking in new shoes. He tugs them off in his doorway, and strips as he makes his way into the suite, collecting the various pieces of his suit and tossing them onto the bed to be folded later. He sinks onto the couch in only his boxers, drinking a cold Evian from the minibar.

He runs a hand through his hair; he’s only just chopped it short again for a role, and it doesn’t quite feel right yet.

Someone begins to pound on his door. Harry glances up blearily, and when it continues with increased furor, he hollers, “Alright, alright,” and gets up, swaying. He tugs his trousers back on, his necklaces jingling together as he leans over.

It’s Nick, who’s even more fucked up than he is. He tries to come in and Harry blocks his path, arching his eyebrows at him.

“Styles, don’t be like this,” Nick whines.

“Like what?” Harry whispers to him, gently pushing down his wandering hands. “I want to sleep... I’ve got an early tee time, a late flight, and then screen tests on Monday...”

“You’re dodging me,” Nick accuses.

“Yeah, I am,” Harry says. He feels a clench in his chest; it’s the familiar aching loneliness of knowing someone only wants to be around you because they want to fuck you. “‘Cos nothing’s happening between us tonight.”

“You’re a fucking nun lately,” Nick scoffs. “Where’d fun Harry go?”

Harry glares at him. “He's died, actually... sorry to be the one to inform you,” he says, and slams the door in Nick’s face.

There's a raucous chorus of mocking _oohs_ in the hall from their mutual friends, and Harry immediately half-regrets what he's done. He didn't want to embarrass Nick. He thinks it's entirely fair, though, that he doesn't want to be treated like an easy lay, especially not tonight.

He falls miserably face-first onto the bed, next to his rumpled suit jacket, which he folds neatly before he allows himself to sink into the mattress.

He reaches for his phone in his trouser pocket, without really allowing himself to acknowledge why he's doing it. He scrolls through his contacts, squinting at the screen, which appears to move in the darkness due to how badly his head is spinning.

Zayn is still in his contact list. Harry changed his number, but swapped all of his contacts over, and he's never quite had the heart to delete Zayn.

He hovers his finger over the little outline of the telephone for an eternity, his nerves spiking and his mouth going dry. Finally, Harry hits it, then tosses the phone aside like it’s burst into flames in his hand. The phone rests on the bed, vibrating as it rings. Harry rolls away from it, already regretting what he’s done. His saving grace is that he doesn't expect Zayn to pick up an unfamiliar number.

He does pick up. Harry is entirely unprepared. His breath catches in his throat at hearing Zayn’s distant voice, deep from sleep, saying “ _hello? … Hello?”_

Harry reaches out and hits the end call button as hard as he can. He lies there, filled with adrenaline, the room spinning even harder than it was a moment ago.

“Stupid,” he says aloud to himself. “Stupid arse. What were you thinking?”

Zayn calls back, and Harry realizes with a gripping terror that he'll get his voicemail if the call goes through. He picks up and hangs up on him as fast as he can, his hands shaky and fumbling, then puts his phone in airplane mode.

Harry falls drifts off facedown on his bed, no sheets over himself, nightly skin routine forgotten. He sleeps with his traitorous hands pinned under him, as if he might call Zayn again in his sleep.

 

*

 

“Payno, you are _shit_ today,” Louis yells. “I’m set to raise your handicap to about thirty.”

From beside Harry, Niall laughs. Liam is about to attempt another tee-off, as his last shot went so extremely wide it actually curved behind them. He puts his middle finger up at his husband.

“I feel loads more confident now, thanks, darling!” Liam shoots back, adjusting his gloves and squinting into the sun.

“You're supposed to use trash talk to inspire you, help you improve your game,” Louis calls. He's leaning on his club. Harry suspects he was laying out in the sun for the days leading up to the wedding; he's too evenly brown for his tan to be fake. He looks handsome set against the gorgeous tropical backdrop of Maui, his face bright with happiness.

“That isn't how I operate!” Liam grumbles, shifting his grip on his driver.

Louis grins. He tugs his visor down further over his eyes and looks over at Niall and Harry.

“In all fairness,” Harry calls, laughing, “neither of you are doing very well, actually.”

“This from the football king of England?” Louis says incredulously, slinging his club over his shoulders and coming toward them.

“We've had to let three groups of your friends play through so far,” Harry points out in amusement, ignoring this blatant ad hominem. Louis laughs and shrugs, acquiescing.

“We’re movin’ at a leisurely pace, is all,” he says, winking at Harry.

“I've got to interrupt here,” Niall says, taking great pains to keep a straight face. “Just wanna remind everybody I'm good at football _and_ golf.”

“Oh, cheers, Nialler...”

Liam tees off and hits it extremely hard, ending up at the edge of the rough. He raises his hand to shield his eyes and squints at it.

“Nice shot,” Niall assures him. “You can come back from that, no problem.”

Harry rests his elbow on Niall's shoulder and glances at him. He seems very cheerful, absolutely in his element and having a great time. Louis and Liam are the consummate bubbly newlyweds, and haven't been on the course long enough for their intense competitiveness to brew serious frustration in them. Harry is the only one whose mood is low. He sighs through his nose.

As they head toward their golf cart, Niall senses this.

“Anythin’ wrong?” he murmurs, as he slides into the driver’s seat.

Harry shakes his head out of habit. “Hungover.”

Niall reaches out and ruffles his hair. Harry smiles. In the other golf cart, Liam and Louis have begun snogging, their clubs abandoned in the grass. Liam's hand snakes down below Louis’ waist.

“Oi!” Niall shouts to them. “Lovebirds! We’ve got twelve more holes!”

“Oh, stuff your bleedin’ holes,” Louis calls back, as Liam kisses up his neck.

“Looks like Payno’s about to stuff yours right here!”

Harry mutters _ew_ and then gets a case of the giggles; several of Liam’s friends who Harry doesn't remember the names of walk up at this exact moment.

“Um,” one of them says. “So should we play through, or like…?”

“Yeah, go on,” Louis shouts to them. Liam pops his head up, looking abashed, and Harry tries to stop laughing to no avail.

Niall snaps a quick photo of them and then turns to Harry and observes him, smiling tentatively. “Is a dirty joke all it takes to cheer you up?” he says. “‘Cos I’ve got loads more where that came from.”

Harry reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “I love you,” he says, apropos of nothing in particular.

He’s pained by the solitude of being adrift; he can’t help but dwell on the idea that he hasn’t got the ballasts the other boys have -- a new marriage and a child, or a fiancée and a stepson to be -- and he’s grateful for it, he loves his freedom, but he wonders now more than ever if he’s missing something. He wonders if the nature of real happiness as an adult isn’t in keeping your options open and yourself untied, but in tying yourself to as much as you can, holding yourself fast to the spinning earth.

He’s watching Liam and Louis as he thinks this, studying their wide grins and lingering gazes. Niall follows his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, softly. “Y’know, they _just_ got married…”

Harry isn’t sure what he means by this, and looks to him with curiosity.

“I’m just sayin’, course they seem crazy happy right now,” Niall murmurs.

“I know,” Harry says, minorly defensive about it. “I know that.”

“Alright,” Niall says. He’s as agreeable as ever. “And hey.” He taps Harry on the nose. “I love you too.”

He starts the golf cart, and Harry settles back in his seat.

 

*

 

“What was the number again?” Taylor says, sounding distracted.

Zayn sighs and rubs at his forehead. “You don’t have t’... Look, just forget it.”

“No, I want to help! I really do!” she exclaims. “It was so nice to hear from you. I just had to turn some things on the grill. Run it by me again?”

Zayn slumps further back in the plush leather swivel chair he’s in, ashing his cigarette. He’s kicked everyone out of the studio so he could make this call, and he sits wrapped up in the darkness, only the red LED glow from various equipment and a UV lamp in the corner illuminating the room.

“310… 540… 6781…” he recites.

“6781?” she repeats. “Okay, got it. I’m looking right now.”

Zayn takes the phone away from his ear for a moment. This phantom number has been bothering him all day, sticking in his mind like taffy, begging to be identified. It occurred to him late this morning that if anyone could identify an isolated call made under an LA area code, to a phone very few people have the number for, it would be Taylor Swift.

“Oh,” Taylor says, and then she laughs in a stilted, breathy way. “Oh, gosh. Yikes.”

“What?” Zayn mumbles, bringing the phone to his ear again.

“Well,” Taylor says. “You’ll laugh. Or maybe not. It’s, um. It’s Harry?”

“Harry,” Zayn repeats, sitting up, his chest constricting. “... Styles?”

“I mean,” Taylor says with a chuckle. “What other Harry do we both know?”

Zayn can’t breathe or think well enough to stay on the phone with her.

“Right… thanks,” he says, and hangs up.

 

*

 

“Hey,” Niall says, as he draws back from a hug with Liam and looks at him, grinning. “Do me a favor?”

“What’s that, mate?” Liam says, matching Niall’s quiet tone. Next to them in the great hall of the hotel, Louis is chatting away with Perrie and Paddy in between his various goodbyes. He seems in no particular hurry to get into the limo that’ll take them to the airport, but Liam keeps glancing at his watch.

“Write down some of your best step-dad advice in an email,” Niall says softly. “All the little things you think I’ll need to know. You’re great with Mia, and I want to do right by Heath, so…”

Liam smiles, feeling quite fond of him. “I can do that,” he says. “Absolutely.”

Niall’s eyes twinkle and he claps Liam on the shoulder, then goes to say goodbye to Louis, who wraps an arm around his neck and whispers something that makes Niall bust up laughing.

Liam wanders off, exhausted from his hosting duties. He collapses on a couch next to Mia and Jay, putting his feet up on the coffee table, and Jay pats his arm.

“Tired?”

“Very,” he says. He stretches his arms out so Mia can climb into them, and she does happily, resting her head on his chest.

“Don’t go,” she says, sounding mournful.

“I’m sorry, love,” Liam murmurs, kissing her on top of the head. He casts his eyes toward Jay and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, she interrupts him.

“No, you are _not_ bringing her along on your honeymoon,” she says sternly. “You’ve hardly had any time alone together these last four years. She’s fine, she’s got me, she's got six aunts and uncles to pal around with.”

Liam acquiesces with a soft “alright” and holds Mia closer. “We’ll be home before you know it,” he tells her.

Louis disengages from the group of people he’s entertaining, slapping them fondly on the back and exchanging promises to keep in touch. He comes over to the couch, gazing at his mum, his husband and his daughter with a deeply fond, if slightly bittersweet look. He reaches out and strokes Mia’s hair, and Mia turns to look at him, woebegone.

“Ready to fuck Italy up, Payno?” he says to Liam.

“That’s a swear,” Mia admonishes.

Louis picks her up and swings her around; she giggles gaily. “Is it?” he says, holding her upside down and blowing raspberries on her stomach. Her laughter grows hysterical. “Is it, darling?”

Liam can’t help smiling as he watches them. “Ready,” he tells Louis, who glances up and winks at him.

 

*

 

Zayn only wanted his assistant to buy him some coffee.

It's all he asked her to do: the mind-numbingly simple task of getting in her car, sitting in miserable traffic on her way to Echo Park, getting him a latte at his favorite shop and returning it to him wordlessly, then leaving him in his self-imposed exile.

Brita somehow fails at this. She finds him in his reading nook, hands him the coffee and slaps a magazine on the table in front of him.

“Wassat,” he says softly, his voice worn out from underuse.

His face sits on the corner of the cover, looking bleary. It's a recent shot of him leaving a club, drunk, miserable. His anger and adrenaline spark in tandem, and then feed off of each other as his eyes move further down, to the little headline: ZAYN BLOWS OFF 1D NUPTIALS, PARTIES HARD INSTEAD.

“That's such bullshit,” he spits. “That photo's from two days before their weddin’. Three, even.”

“I just thought you should see there's still bad press about it,” Brita says, sounding bored. “It’s not, like, going away.”

Zayn hired her for her cool aesthetic and quickly grew to regret this decision; she's as dumb as a post.

“My reps are on top of it,” he mutters, flipping the magazine onto its front to hide the article from himself. “Thanks, though.”

“No prooob,” she calls, walking away. “Call me if you need anything…”

Zayn won't need anything. He's stocked up well enough that he hasn't got to leave the house until their honeymoon is over, in an attempt to avoid the media onslaught of the same few loved-up, pre-approved photos from their wedding over and over, and now shots of them snogging each other in Tuscany -- or piled onto a motorbike together, or making their own pasta, or loose-limbed with alcohol and dancing at a club in Ibiza, but always hanging off each other, always touching, their wedding bands shining on their fingers.

Jay has been unknowingly (or perhaps knowingly -- Zayn wonders sometimes, if she sees him more clearly than her son does) tempering this steady flow of little gut-punches by sending him plenty of sweet photos of his daughter. They're the only reason he’s felt like checking his phone since the wedding.

Nights are tough, as they usually are for Zayn. It's a familiar affliction of his when he's single. He eases the silence with weed and pharmaceuticals, but these last few days, nights are when he thinks about calling Harry.

Harry looks great in all of the candid wedding shots of him that Zayn has seen so far. There's one in particular that he loves, in which Harry is laughing with Kendall, his head thrown back, utterly un-self-conscious in a way he is rarely allowed to be.

In the dark, Zayn clutches his phone in a clammy palm, his loneliness pulsing inside of him like a rejected organ. He keeps hearing Taylor’s voice saying, _You'll laugh, or maybe not._

 

*

 

Harry's screen tests go brilliantly.

He's been feeling unsure of himself lately as he's transitioned to bigger and more challenging roles, but Paul Greengrass took him aside at the end of the day and said with invective, “You're fuckin’ it, kid. You're fuckin’ _it_. Man, am I glad we could afford you,” and slapped him on the shoulder. He'd been so excited he'd let spittle fly with every _fuckin’_. Since then, Harry's been walking on air.

He spends the rest of the evening with friends, chatting idly and watching the sun sink down over the ocean, then returns to his house in Beverly Hills. The vast, clean and remote modern layout normally sets him at ease, but today he feels antsy. He wants to be away from windows, away from gleaming white surfaces and the twinkling blue Los Angeles night, wrapped up in a warm dark room somewhere.

His back is aching from a long day of standing in place, and he stretches out and does a few half-arsed yoga poses. His heart isn’t really in it.

Harry restlessly moves deeper inside of his house, drawing himself a bath and lighting some incense. He lies there, buzzing with some irrepressible urge to be, to do, to go, unable to think of any way to alleviate it as the water goes cold around him.

He resolves to just rub one out and go to bed. He’s toweling himself off when security calls.

“I’ve got someone down here for you,” says Robb.

“What, like, a visitor?” Harry says, perplexed. He expected to be told a fan was trying to climb the fence, or something.

“A visitor, yeah.”

“Who?”

“Zayn Malik.”

Harry stands there, water running down his legs, the damp towel hanging limply from his hand.

“I -- sorry?” he says, stunned.

“Zayn Malik,” Robb repeats patiently, “is standing out here in the rain, waiting for you, begging to see you. Should I send him up?”

“It’s raining?” Harry says, seizing on this small pointless detail in an effort to cut through the adrenaline that has abruptly begun surging in his veins. He feels light-headed and stands up straight, finishing drying himself very roughly and unceremoniously as he heads down the hall to put clothes on.

“It started raining, yeah,” Robb confirms. “And he’s been drinking, by the way. Can’t tell how much, but I figured you should know."

Harry’s heart sinks.

"You coming down? You want him sent up?"

"Yes," Harry says. "Yes, one sec."

Harry tosses his phone down onto the bed. Then he pauses in the middle of tugging his jeans on, and truly considers what he’s doing.

He wants to see Zayn, of course he does, his hands did not separate themselves from his body and ring Zayn’s number three nights ago with no input from his mind, his emotions, his hormones. He misses Zayn. He’s missed Zayn for five years. He’s often hated him in the interim, but that fact feels so distant to him right now.

It was his decision to end it between them. His career was more important, and he was so young: a hair’s breadth from being eighteen years old. He wasn’t even legally allowed to drink when he came to Zayn’s hotel room and sat with him on the bed, held his hand and told him they had to stop, and that they couldn’t start up again while the band was together.

They had near misses over the years, but Harry always managed to remain steadfast in his ambitions. Zayn would come to him at night, beautiful and beguiling, with dark eyes and full lips; he’d whisper to him, “C’mon, just one more time, just once more,” and sometimes Harry would let Zayn kiss him but inevitably kicked him out before things progressed.

More than a few times the following day brought a blog post or a rag story about Zayn having been out the night before, directly after he had left Harry’s hotel room -- cavorting with fans, cheating on Perrie -- and Harry would swallow the words in bitter silence. He would remember then, that he made the right choice. He would go out on his own, seeking out older and powerful alphas who could make him feel special and safe, whose faces and hands had seen enough time on this earth that they did not remind him of the sleepy-eyed and boyish Zayn whatsoever.

He found partners he could talk metaphysically with, who valued hard work and artistic ideals as much as he did. He had tantric sex and took peyote with men twice his age. He thought to himself very hard that this was how things ought to be for him.

Until he got engaged, Zayn never stopped trying to win him back. In contrast with all the caddish wrongs he committed over the years, he was pure of heart in how he never gave up on Harry, and did him the kindness of never resenting him for the decision he’d made.

His resentment would come later, though Harry’s resentment would come first.

Harry’s anger -- at Zayn’s wanton destruction of the once tight-knit fivesome, and irreparable harm to the band’s image and earning potential -- burned cleanly and felt good. He was purged and strengthened by it. Anger insulated him from the heartbreak and horror of watching Zayn pine pathetically after his pregnant side piece, Harry’s ex-best friend. He retreated within himself, and began to prepare for his career after the band.

He used the sick lurch of his stomach at Zayn’s hideous pronouncement that he would now make _#realmusic_ , and at Zayn’s unwittingly monstrous labelling of the man carrying his child as _bitchy_ , to center and drive him. Harry told himself over and over that none of this drama with boys he’d known far too long and too well would impact his life much ten years in the future.

He told himself that he never would do what Louis had done -- would never keep a baby that had been conceived out of a manufactured scene of utter chaos, chaos specifically designed to make as much money from them as possible and cast them aside as husks who would eventually turn up on _Dancing With the Stars._

Harry told himself that as fun as it was to watch, he would never, ever turn up on _Dancing With the Stars._

The band went their separate ways for a while, and once they did, his anger became less clean, more bloody and muddled. Zayn seemed to unintentionally dog his steps everywhere he went in London or Hollywood. They turned up in all the same places, pointedly ignoring each other, though Harry sometimes thought he saw Zayn casting wistful glances at him.

Then there had been that near run-in during a party at the Bungalows two years ago, where they’d stared each other down. Harry had been drunk off his arse, grinding against a man he was barely interested in, and staring into Zayn’s dark and impassioned eyes across the patio as he rubbed another man’s cock was better than any sex he’d had in years. That night he’d jerked himself into quiet ecstasy remembering all of the frantic, wonderful teenaged sex he and Zayn had once had. He’d finally allowed himself to remember, and in remembering he couldn’t recall how he’d ever let himself forget.

He’s been remembering again, these last few days. His old feelings have been bubbling to the surface, bobbing in the water.

Harry’s only human, even when he’d rather not be.

He finishes pulling up his trousers. He walks through his quiet house, down the stairs and across the main floor, shirtless, a cross hanging from his neck.

His heart pounds desperately. He wets his lips and opens his front door.

Zayn stands there, his hair soaked, his leather jacket soaked. He’s as gorgeous as ever, his eyes melancholy and pleading.

“Harry,” he whispers.

The sound of his name in Zayn’s mouth after all these years hits him like a brick to the temple. Harry can hardly breathe for a moment.

“What are you doing?” Harry finally says, his voice pained. “What are you -- why would you come here?”

Zayn looks crushed.

“Come in, get out of the rain,” Harry says, reaching out and dragging him by his lapel. He feels his resolve weakening.

Zayn staggers when tugged forward, unsteady on his feet. Harry wishes fleetingly that he would have come here sober. He pulls him into the living room and turns, staring hard into his eyes, glad suddenly for his slight height advantage.

Zayn steps into his space. Uninstructed, instinctually, their bodies lean toward each other. Their scents mingle, and they breathe each other’s air. Harry stands, frozen. Zayn shrugs his jacket off his shoulders.

It hits the ground with a soft thump. Neither of them move, and then Zayn does.

He grabs Harry’s jaw, hard. Harry’s skin is aflame at his touch. Blood is pounding through him and throbbing in his cock.

“You can’t do this,” Harry murmurs, staring at Zayn’s mouth. “You can’t come in my house and do this…”

Zayn kisses him. He has the sour taste of liquor, but his lips are full and soft and immensely skilled. Harry goes boneless, pressing against him, and Zayn’s hand goes hard to the small of his back, pulling him in closer.

Harry moans softly, and with a great internal wrenching sensation, gives himself over. He sinks into the kiss, sucking hard at Zayn’s bottom lip, falling into Zayn’s arms. He’s missed him so dearly.

He draws slightly back from Zayn, a subtle string of saliva joining their eager and parted lips as he does.

“It’s been _five_ years,” he whispers throatily, rubbing at Zayn’s cock with his thigh as he says it.

Zayn’s hands snake up his neck and into his hair, cupping him by the jaw and the back of the head.

“Let me take you t’ bed,” he says, just as throatily. “Please.”

“We ought to talk,” Harry murmurs, despite wanting nothing less than to talk and nothing more than to collapse onto a horizontal surface with Zayn and be had by him.

“No, no, we’ll talk later,” Zayn says, still sounding tipsy, stroking his face. Harry’s throat tightens and he nods.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers.

“You want me?” Zayn says, staring at him intently. His gaze pins Harry. Harry sighs softly, nodding hard.

“God,” he moans, “I…”

Zayn snogs him again, with desperation. The eager press of his body and mouth are overwhelming. It feels as if he needs to drive into Harry the way an axe drives into wood. Harry, conversely, is aching to be driven into.

They drag each other upstairs, absolute messes the both of them. Zayn slams Harry into the wall of the landing, under the sparkling soft light of one of his chandeliers. Harry gasps, surprised and pleased. Zayn snogs him more and more desperately, sucking Harry’s lip so hard that he can tell it’s already swollen from the stimulation; it tingles and burns, but he can’t tear himself away from Zayn’s mouth. The ache pounds more insistently inside of him.

Neither of them want to move, because to move is to stop kissing and to stop dry humping through the rough fabric of their jeans. Zayn’s hands are pressed hard to Harry’s sides, keeping him in place as he shoves his knee between Harry’s legs.

Harry writhes against him in ecstasy. Zayn moves his face to kiss down Harry’s throat, his beard scraping the delicate skin there. Harry has a fleeting desire to protest this and then is lost again in how good it feels.

“Bed, Zayn, bed,” he whispers, his voice soft and rough. Zayn nods, but continues what he’s doing. Harry slides his hands over Zayn’s shoulders and then his back. His skin is very warm under his soft black tee. He’s still so lithe and waify, though his musculature is obvious under his shirt.

Harry shivers.

He thinks dirty talk will hurry Zayn along, so he murmurs, “I want you inside of me,” and Zayn tenses and groans, grinding his knee harder against Harry’s stiff cock, kissing him more passionately.

They do finish making their way upstairs, kissing as they walk. At one point they stumble on the stairs and almost fall, but cling to each other and to the banister very hard.

Zayn laughs. It twists Harry’s heart to hear it. He hasn’t heard him laugh in five years.

Harry collapses provocatively across his bed when they finally get there, arching his back and letting his shirt ride up, exposing his toned stomach and soft hips. Zayn staggers forward and falls atop him, showing his drunkenness. His hands on either side of Harry, he gazes at him rapturously and then yanks his jeans off his arse, hard. Harry’s cock springs free, completely erect.

Zayn takes it in his mouth immediately, as if he can't stand looking at it without sucking it. Harry gasps and it sticks in his throat; he grabs Zayn’s damp hair and holds on desperately.

The two of them have always liked stories, so Harry tells him one, his voice hitching and growing uneven in tone as his cock pulses from how deep and eagerly Zayn is blowing him.

“Nick wanted to fuck me after the wedding,” he says breathlessly, “but I didn't let him… ‘s’like, the first time I've ever said no to him, but… I kept thinking about you -- I came the other day from you, used a vibrator on myself… thought about your cock…”

Zayn gags on him, moaning, and takes him even deeper. Harry grips the sheets, teetering on hysteria.

Harry’s quite good at delaying his orgasms, drawing them out, making them richer and deeper when they finally come. He has no presence of mind to do that this time. He’s been waiting five years for this; he doesn’t have to wait any longer.

He comes in Zayn’s mouth and Zayn chokes and swallows, come dribbling down his chin, then sucks his softening cock for a few moments longer. Harry sucks in air, hardly able to deal with that sensation, white-knuckling the sheets.

Zayn gets up to cross the vast, lavish bedroom and tips off the edge of the bed, swearing. Harry has the crashing recollection that Zayn is inebriated.

He recovers, though, and goes into Harry’s bedside table. Harry busies himself with pulling his shirt over his head. He lies there starkers, wearing only the cross around his neck. Zayn glances at him, smiling, eyes roving over his body as he pulls some lube from the drawer. Harry’s heartbeat skips.

“Grab a rubber, too,” he murmurs, not expecting a fight on it.

But Zayn groans and returns to him on the bed, loose-limbed with alcohol, kissing all over his face. Harry allows this for a moment, then draws back and eyes him.

“Rubber,” he insists.

“Won’t feel as good,” Zayn says in his most luxurious voice, rolling his hips and hard cock against Harry, gazing at him. “I wanna feel you…”

Harry grabs Zayn by one of his wrists, hard, his patience rapidly vanishing. “Rubber,” he says again.

“Ain’t on any pills?” Zayn says, kissing up his neck again, pressing him back against the bed. Harry tilts his chin up, still craving Zayn’s touch, his brain still somewhat muddled.

“I am,” he says, “but wear one anyway.”

“Haz…” Zayn whispers, kissing Harry’s cheekbone.

“You’re not getting me pregnant,” Harry says, and the intensity and anger in his voice gives them both pause.

Zayn hovers over him, breathing heavily, his eyes two dark wastelands devoid of warmth.

“What’s it matter,” he snaps, “you’d ‘ave an abortion anyway --”

Harry feels as if he’s been stabbed quite suddenly in his chest. He rolls out from under Zayn, wounded beyond his wildest imaginings.

“Get out,” he cries, “get _out_ \-- you piece of shit --”

“What?” Zayn demands. “What the _fuck?_ It’s me that should be angry!”

Harry wheels on him, tears pricking in his eyes, trembling with rage. “ _You?_ Why _you?_ ”

Zayn puts his hands palm-down on the bed, squinting into middle distance as if he’s trying to focus. Harry stands and watches him, his heart in his throat.

“How’d you even hear about that?” Harry says, dizzied by heartache.

Zayn looks up at him. “David told me you said it.”

“ _David_?” Harry repeats, baffled.

“Baxter? ‘E’s collabed with both of us, years back?”

“Wait, said what?”

“Said --” Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose. “Said you’d said that to ‘im!”

“I never told David _Baxter_ I had an abortion!” Harry says, shaking his head.

Zayn freezes, clearly stunned.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, slurring. “Fuck, fuck, Harry. You ‘ad -- ? That isn’t -- that’s not what I was talkin’ about at all, mate...”

Harry’s shoulders slump. His eyes are very hot, and his throat tight. Tears threaten to fall, but he squares his jaw.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

“When did you --” Zayn can’t seem to finish this question.

Harry returns to him and sits on the bed. Zayn strokes his back and shoulders with gentle hands, soothing him and kissing him.

“This January,” he says weakly. “I don’t -- it’s fine... it was someone I was casual with, I’m not wrecked over it or anything… it was the right choice.”

They sit in silence for a few moments. Zayn kisses his shoulderblade.

“D’you really think I’d say somethin’ like that to you, if I knew?” he says, his breath hot on Harry’s skin.

“I dunno,” Harry says numbly. “I don’t really know you anymore, so --”

“I’d never, I promise…” Zayn murmurs.

“Then what were you talking about?” Harry says, lying back on the bed. Zayn straddles over top of him, kissing his jaw and stroking his fingers through Harry’s curls.

Zayn stills. He tries to speak, but his voice catches in his throat. Finally, he says, bitterly, “You told David a while back, like… you didn’t know why Louis hadn’t ‘ad an abortion. That you would have in a heartbeat, if you were him. That you couldn’t see any reason ‘e had for havin’ my baby, ‘specially after I’d left the band.”

Harry feels hot shame course through him. He had said all these things, but he was consumed by anger and hurt when he’d said them. The band had only been on break half a year. Harry was feeling powerfully alone. Bile still rose in his mouth every time Zayn was mentioned, which was why he had spewed invective when David had pressed him on the topic.

“He shouldn’t have told you about that,” Harry murmurs. “I was… that wasn’t a good moment, for me.”

Zayn slides his hand over Harry’s thigh, caressing him. They lie there, breathing together, recovering from having very old wounds unearthed and scrabbled at by each other.

“It broke my heart when you got him pregnant,” Harry says, his throat tightening. “It’s done and over with, it’s a million years ago, but _God_ … right when you fucking left us...”

Zayn clears his throat hard. “I tried t’ get in touch with you,” he says hoarsely. “Tried to explain.”

“I couldn’t,” Harry says. “I couldn’t...”

He shakes his head.

“I really loved you, you know…?”

It’s profoundly difficult for him to say. He looks at Zayn, his gaze unwavering. Zayn looks back, his expression full of wretched pain.

“Me too,” Zayn says. His voice is raw, rent open by vulnerability. Harry strokes his arm.

Zayn retrieves a rubber from the bedside table and looks at Harry questioningly. Harry nods, hard. He wants this even more now that Zayn has been tender and honest with him. He reaches out and with skillful fingers, helps him put it on.

Zayn slides his arms gently around Harry’s waist and brings him close, as his other hand moves downward to begin fingering him open. Harry allows a soft cry to escape him. He sinks his hands into Zayn’s thick, dark hair, stroking his head, the silver rings on his fingers shining through inky blackness. Zayn kisses him deeply on the mouth, moving up on the bed slightly, his fingers digging into Harry’s waist.

Zayn’s cock slides into him and lovely darkness explodes behind his eyelids. The muscles in his pelvis clench and release. He moans, arching his back. They wrap around each other, Harry’s legs crossed behind Zayn’s back, one of his hands moving from Zayn’s hair to the back of his neck, clutching at him as he fucks into Harry. Zayn breathes hard, his lips parted and his face flushed, staring into Harry’s eyes. Harry stares back.

“You feel so good,” Zayn whispers, his voice ragged. Harry drags in a breath and tips his head back, closing his eyes. “So tight… I missed you so much…”

Harry bears down on Zayn and Zayn gasps, pressing his nose hard to Harry’s neck, his body tensing against him pleasurably and then relaxing again.

“Forgot how quiet you are,” Zayn murmurs, sucking under his ear.

“Careful,” Harry warns him breathily, “I start shooting on Thursday…”

Zayn cheekily nips at his neck and Harry digs his nails hard into Zayn’s back in retaliation; they both laugh a bit hysterically, overwhelmed by the passion of their long-needed reunion, overwhelmed by how good their bodies feel together.

Harry flips them over and repositions himself on top of Zayn, as he's clearly tiring. To Harry’s gratification, Zayn is completely rock hard in spite of the liquor in him. He seems on the verge of coming as Harry rides him cowgirl, his face dark and his eyes closed, breathing hard and groaning nearly every time Harry rolls his hips.

“God, God,” he whispers, gripping Harry’s thighs. Harry studies him.

“You about to come?”

“Unfortunately,” Zayn breathes.

“It's alright,” Harry says, then budges up so he can get Zayn a little deeper and moans. Zayn squeezes him harder.

“You’re so tight, fuck,” he whispers again, his voice very low and throaty. Harry can tell he's very close and rides him harder, loving the feel of him deep, wanting to possess and own him. Zayn was and still is one of the most grateful and present lovers he's ever had; maybe because they were so young when they started fucking. They'll always be some sort of magic to each other.

“You keep saying that,” Harry says, his voice strained.

“Missed ya,” Zayn moans.

“Come for me,” Harry urges him. “Go on…”

Zayn’s fingers tighten. Harry reaches out and grips his hair, then rides Zayn harder, bouncing on him. He and Zayn gasp and sigh in unison.

Zayn’s eyes flutter and his back arches against the bed. He groans and cries Harry’s name, hoarsely and desperately, and Harry knows he's done.

He climbs off of Zayn quickly so the condom doesn't leak. He lies next to him and Zayn pulls him close, kissing his hair and forehead.

Zayn pulls the condom off with a wet sound and ties it off, tossing it in the garbage. The sharp smell of his semen reaches Harry’s nose, and it makes him want to cuddle closer. Zayn trails his hands through Harry’s hair.

“Fuck, this’s crazy,” he mutters. “Never thought you’d let me in the house. Dunno why I even came over here.”

“I called you,” Harry says, very softly. He clears his throat and tries again. “I called you… I wanted you.”

“You forgive me?” Zayn says. He sounds small.

Harry pulls back slightly, so he can look in his eyes. Zayn’s fingers continue to trail through his hair. He gazes at Harry with a hopeful expression.

“I ought to be honest,” Harry says hesitantly. “I mean, no. But I’m not really angry with you anymore, either.”

“That’s a start,” Zayn murmurs.

They settle back against each other. Harry presses one of his palms to Zayn’s whippet-thin chest. His hand is large enough that it covers most of Zayn’s sternum.

Zayn’s heart beats against his hand, fast at first and then more and more sluggish as the two of them fall asleep.

 

*

 

Liam’s heart stops in his chest when he staggers to the bedside lamp and turns it on.

“Tommo,” he says, very quietly, dreading his reaction.

“What?” Louis says, his voice reedy and seesawing with exhaustion. “What --”

He looks at Liam, then looks at the used condom in his hand, and his entire face sinks under the weight of his dawning comprehension.

“No, _no_ ,” he cries, sitting up in bed, clutching the sheet to his naked torso. “Fuck, tell me it didn’t --”

“It broke,” Liam says quietly, not making eye contact with him. He feels utterly horrendous.

Louis is suddenly full of energy. He bursts out of bed, pulling his joggers on.

Liam turns the overhead light on, illuminating the entire bedroom. They’re renting an ancient and gorgeous house on the cliffs of Costa Smeralda; it overlooks the glimmering Mediterranean, where they’ve spent the last two days fishing and playing around on the beach. Their flight leaves for Capri tomorrow, at eight in the morning -- the absolute last thing they needed to do tonight was somehow break a condom during very routine and tender missionary.

“ _God,_ ” Louis cries.

“Haven’t your pills gotten sorted yet?” Liam says, desperate to find a reason that this doesn’t matter.

“This is the last day!” Louis exclaims, glaring at him. “Tomorrow, it’d be fine, today, I don’t fuckin’ know, I’m in no man’s land right now --”

“Come on, it’s got to be --” Liam pulls his boxers on and makes a noise of frustration in his throat. “I’m sure you’re fine, really!”

“Don’t be so sure!” Louis shoots back, his voice going higher and higher. “Zayn didn’t even actually finish in me when he got me pregnant, you do realize!”

Luckily he’s turned away, looking for his Vans under the bed, so Liam can freely make a displeased face at this arrangement of words.

“Where are you rushing off to?” Liam says.

“The chemist’s, dumbarse! I need Plan B!”

The vitriol in his voice stings. Liam falls into a reproachful silence.

Louis looks up at him, then presses his hands hard against the bed and looks down.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just --”

“Let’s regroup,” Liam says to him, patiently. “Let’s think a minute. Are there even any twenty-four hour chemists around? And can’t I go get it for you?”

Louis sighs. “I mean, you could --”

Liam has his phone out already, trying to get an answer to his original question.

“So, bad news,” he mutters after a moment. “None are open --”

Louis groans loudly and flings himself on the bed, his hand to his eyes.

“But,” Liam says bracingly. “I’ve got that friend who summers here, remember? That driver, Luca? I’m willing to bet he’s got some on hand, or knows where to get it. He’s got like, a permanent horn on --”

Louis lowers his hand and looks up at him hopefully.

“I’ll call him and see,” Liam says. “And I’ll go pick it up. And you just, like, try and relax. Alright?”

“Alright,” Louis murmurs.

Liam puts his shirt, trousers and sunglasses on, kneels across the bed and smooths Louis’ hair back from his forehead, then kisses him.

“It’s midnight, you don’t need sunglasses to drive,” Louis points out.

“They aren’t for the sun, they’re for my vibe,” Liam says, and finger guns him. Louis snorts and gently shoves his shoulder.

 

*

 

Luca happily attempts to provide Liam with multiple boxes of Plan B, despite Liam assuring him that this isn’t necessary.

“Nonsense!” he barks cheerfully. “Accidents happen!”

“Well, I promise we only need the one, but _grazie_ \--”

“Ahh, _figurati!_ ”

When Liam returns to the house, it’s enveloped in the same still blue silence he left it in. His feet sound punishingly loud on the stairs. He aches with guilt and culpability.

The entire winding drive back, he was able to genuinely examine his feelings about this accident and how he truly feels about having a baby with Louis so soon. He realized with a pang in his chest that he really doesn’t want Louis to be pregnant right now. The reality of the situation jostled loose his romantic image of parenthood; he’s been mentally reliving the exhaustion and stress of Mia’s babyhood for the last half-hour. He feels like a naive fool for only now understanding what Louis has been trying to tell him lately.

Louis must have heard him pull up, because he meets him at the top of the stairs with a glass of water in his hand and takes the box from Liam, then frees the pill and swallows it immediately.

“Alright,” Louis says, sounding ragged and exhausted. “Let’s get to bed now, we’ve got an early flight...”

“I’m so sorry, babe,” Liam says genuinely. “I --”

“It isn’t your fault,” Louis assures him. “I know it isn’t. I was being a prick. I’m just -- God, I had, like, flashbacks --”

“I know,” Liam says, feeling miserable. “I understand what you meant now. It’s not the right time, is it?”

Louis smiles a mirthless and knowing smile at him, then takes him by the shoulders.

“No, Payno,” he says in fond exasperation. “It really isn’t. And I’d sort of prefer never to find myself accidentally pregnant ever again.”

“I get it. I really, really do.”

“Brilliant. Let’s go to bed, now?”

They fall back into bed, naked with just a sheet settled lightly over them. The air is thickly warm, but a coastal breeze flutters the curtains of their bedroom windows.

“I’d never --” Louis clears his throat. “I mean, if it happened, I’d -- of course I’d be happy, of course I’d love the baby --”

“I know, I know,” Liam assures him, his chest tight. “I know.”

“I hate…”

Louis looks up at the ceiling, watching the fan spin. His blue eyes are shining brightly, and his jaw is tight.

“I hate that my body can just... betray me like that,” he mutters.

“I know, love…”

Louis reaches out and strokes his hair. Liam sidles up closer to him, in spite of the heat.


	3. PART III

Louis throws himself thoroughly into work when they return to London, anxious that he’s somehow fallen disastrously behind on industry trends in the last few weeks. He’s missed his daughter dearly, and takes her with him to the office nearly every day when he’s first back. She sits under his desk playing with her toys and gets piggy-back rides around the office from his employees when they want to blow off whatever they’re supposed to be working on.

He and Liam are still basking in the glow of their honeymoon, snogging every chance they get, Louis making fun of the Speedo tan lines Liam has from being too modest to strip at the nude beach they went to. Their home life is picture-book cheery for the moment; Mia is on her best behavior after being without them. Louis often glances happily at his wedding band, thinking to himself that his five-year plan is moving forward splendidly, and of how deeply bonded he feels to Liam now. Their partnership is legally binding, witnessed by God, absolute. They have promised themselves to each other for the rest of their lives, they are family in the eyes of the state.

He calls Zayn the day after their flight gets into Heathrow, asking him when he wants to take Mia next.

“I’m recordin’ all next week,” Zayn mutters. “I’ll… uh… I’ll be back first week in August…”

“Yeah?” Louis says, surprised. “That far off?”

“Sorry, mate… busy time for me...”

Silence stretches between them.

“Wedding went fine, by the way,” Louis says.

“Good,” Zayn mutters. “I’ve got to go.”

Louis is so stunned by this, he doesn’t even say goodbye before hanging up.

He plays this off to Liam, hoping it will turn out to be nothing. Louis feels good, genuinely and without complication, which is unusual for him. If he puts a name to the encroaching darkness he's been feeling from Zayn, he’ll be admitting it exists and forced to confront it.

This darkness isn’t new. It reared its head when they got engaged; Zayn picked Mia up the evening after Louis proposed, and saw the platinum band flashing on his ring finger in the twilight. His face had instantly shadowed. Louis got a jolt in his stomach like he’d missed a stair.

Liam would condemn Zayn for all of this, and the older Mia gets, the less Louis can stomach Liam showing any bitterness toward her father. He feels rent between two worlds alongside her, feels like he’s got to try and obfuscate that he ever had feelings for Zayn, ever considered him his best mate and closest confidante, that he ever had mind-blowing sex with him in the darkness of hotels -- despite the fact that the undeniable proof lives in their home with them and is beloved by them.

Liam brings it up to him on the third of August, after they’ve put Mia to bed. They’re in a good mood; earlier that day, Louis had gotten a voicemail from his gyno confirming that he’s officially not pregnant. Louis cracked a bottle of champagne, and they killed nearly half of it before Liam put it away, protesting that they’ve got work tomorrow.

“Thought Zayn was supposed to be back in town by now,” Liam mutters to him, as they stand outside Mia’s doorway.

Louis looks at his husband in the dark, at the furrow of his brow and the abyss of his brown eyes.

“He was,” Louis admits.

“Where is he?”

“Working,” he says, much too quickly.

Liam’s frown deepens. Louis feels helpless.

“He’s working,” he repeats.

“When the hell is he going to wrap up on this album?” Liam mutters. “‘Cos Mike Cross told me yesterday that Zayn was supposed to have a final mix in by the fifteenth.”

“He changed his mind on a few songs last-minute, he had rewrites --”

“Who is he, Kanye?”

“Payno,” Louis snaps, a warning in his voice.

Liam relents, putting his hands up.

“His daughter misses him, is all,” he says.

“He misses her too,” Louis protests. “He calls to talk to her like, daily.”

“There’s something else going on, clearly,” Liam says, seemingly emboldened by the alcohol. He sounds hurt. “Have you thought about that? That he’s avoiding you and me?”

“Why would he do that?” Louis says, squinting at him.

A very nuanced series of expressions crosses Liam’s face, ending in a forced blankness that drives Louis crazy.

“I dunno,” Liam says, unconvincingly.

“You’ve got theories, though,” Louis retorts.

Liam shakes his head.

“Let’s not talk about this,” he says.

“Liam --”

Liam pats him on the shoulder. “I’ve got to spend a few minutes in the studio,” he says. “Let me know if you’d like to watch some shit TV after, or something.”

Louis exerts a very conscious effort not to have the fight he wants to have.

“Sounds good,” he says.

They exchange brief smiles, gliding easily back into newlywed mode. Liam takes his leave, and Louis leans against his daughter’s door in the quiet of the upstairs hallway, breathing as deep as he can.

 

*

 

Zayn mentions to Nicky that he’s seeing somebody; Nicky is very positive on this development.

“You need some strange, it'll help you get your head right,” he says, and then offers the use of his boat if Zayn wants some privacy, seeming to divine that this relationship is not for public consumption.

Zayn takes him up on this. He wants to hang out with Harry somewhere that isn’t one of their houses; it reminds him too much of when they were fucking the first time around, always rushing each other in hotels or in the bathrooms of planes, always muttering _fuck, fuck, hurry up_ , never truly giving themselves over and always with an ear pricked for footsteps or a knock.

His security pulls into Harry’s underground garage and Harry meets him in the backseat. The first thing he does is pluck the joint from between Zayn’s fingers and toss it out the window.

“Hey,” Zayn says, scowling.

“Oops, sorry,” Harry drawls, reclining back against the seats, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “D’you have to be high or drunk to interact with me?”

Zayn shakes his head, deciding not to tell Harry about the flask in his front jacket pocket.

“It isn’t that,” he says. “It’s like, to interact with… life.”

This was the wrong thing to say, he knows immediately. Harry arches a well-groomed eyebrow at him and says nothing.

They share a quiet ride over to the marina. They’re aware they’re both extremely busy, professionally, and neither of them minds as the other stares at his phone or frustratedly taps away at a text or an email.

Zayn finally sets his to the side once he’s had enough of mind-numbing suggestions from his label, including requests that he avoid using the word pussy so much and swap out a synth-heavy number he's quite proud of for a more traditionally pop song that he scrapped working on weeks ago.

He comes across to Harry’s row of seats, leaning into him and snogging him. Harry sets his phone down and spreads his legs, allowing Zayn to climb between them. They rub up against each other needily, and Harry strokes Zayn’s hair.

“Don’t think this record’s going to be my best,” Zayn murmurs, groping Harry’s cock through his tight jeans. He didn’t get to smoke much of his joint, but he’s got a nice buzz on besides.

“Honestly?” Harry says, his voice a profoundly attractive rumble in his throat, “I haven’t listened to anything you’ve made since you left the band.”

“You lot makin’ any more albums?” Zayn mutters, before kissing Harry deeply. He draws back to allow him to respond, enjoying the sight of Harry’s large pupils and his full lips made fuller and rosier by Zayn’s mouth.

“Maybe one or two,” Harry says, looking at him with no particular expression. Zayn loves his voice when he’s like this; he wants him to talk forever. His cock is stiffening a bit under Zayn’s hand. “What makes you think yours won’t be good?”

Zayn hesitates.

“Got too many things to say, not enough songs,” he says softly, and that’s all he says. They resume kissing.

 

*

 

Nicky’s sailboat is tacky beyond belief. Harry laughs at it as he walks up the dock, in a genuine and loose way that it does Zayn’s heart good to hear.

“‘S named in honor of his ex-wife,” Zayn says, gesturing to the words _Hose Beast_ emblazoned on the side.

“Was it a divorce present to himself?” Harry asks, as he climbs nimbly into the cockpit. Zayn follows him and begins to work on the knots holding the boat to the dock. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him, and is aroused by it. They’re both still randy from their mischief in the car.

Harry starts the engine as Zayn works, and takes the tiller in his hand as Zayn comes back and takes a seat next to him. Harry slides his hand up and down the tiller and cocks his eyebrow, grinning.

“Let’s get out of the dock, first?” Zayn murmurs, running a hand over Harry’s thigh and squeezing. Harry laughs.

When they’re out on the water, he leans against Zayn comfortably. Zayn’s breath catches in his throat. It’s been so long since Harry just sagged against him like this, the way they all used to do with each other.

“Does Niall know about us?” he says, out of the blue.

Harry sniffs and shakes his head. He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. “Why?”

“Just wonderin’.”

“I’m not ashamed, or anything,” Harry says slowly. “I just don’t feel like defending my decision to anyone, yet.”

“He’d think I’d hurt you,” Zayn says. He knows he sounds bitter.

Harry nods, as if it isn’t any matter of significance, as if it’s an absolutely normal situation that they’re in.

“I won’t,” Zayn swears passionately.

Harry shrugs. “Then don’t.”

He sits up, as if to slam the book closed on this portion of the date.

 

*

 

After an hour or so of sailing, they cut the motor and float in a secluded inlet. They go below deck and get handsy with each other, hands sliding up under each other’s shirts and into each other’s tight jeans. Zayn wants so badly to mark Harry all over with his tongue and teeth. The most he’s been able to do without objection is suck a massive gorgeous hickey onto the curve of his round little arse, and then another below, on his taut thigh. Harry laughed breathily and sighed as if he disapproved, but he had also eagerly rolled over so Zayn could get a better angle on him.

Thinking of that now, Zayn wants to eat Harry’s arse, but he’ll wait ‘til they're home.

Together they sink down onto the bed at the back of the cabin. While Harry peels his jeans off, Zayn takes a few surreptitious shots from his flask, then pulls his own trousers off.

He climbs between Harry’s legs, shoving him hard back against the bed. He leans in to kiss him again and Harry breaks away, looking at him quizzically.

“Did you just drink?”

“Just a nip,” Zayn says quickly, not wanting this to become a conversation.

Harry very gently strokes his hair and his face, which isn’t the reaction Zayn expected. He seems about to say something when Zayn’s mobile rings in his pocket.

“Oh, don’t get it,” Harry pleads.

“I can’t,” Zayn mutters. “I’ve got a kid, I can’t, y’know --”

Harry shakes his head as if to dispel something. “Fuck, right, sorry.”

Zayn reluctantly moves away from the welcoming heat of Harry’s thighs to dig in his pocket for his phone. Louis is calling. He answers.

“Is it Mia?” he says, immediately.

“I mean,” Louis says, already sounding aggressive and confrontational. “It’s about the fact that you haven’t seen her since the beginning of July, yeah.”

Zayn sighs inaudibly and rests his hands against the bed, settling in for an argument. Harry raises his eyebrows and Zayn makes a conciliatory expression.

“I know,” he mutters. “I do want to see her.”

He hates even speaking to Louis lately. It’s a hateful reminder that he’s the sullen loser in this situation; he’s the tantrum-thrower, the loveless, the angry and bitter little pissant, the dickhead biological dad who never quite got his shit together to earn a family with a man he barely even gets along with these days, but who he can’t seem to stop thinking about.

Zayn can’t stand the idea of seeing Louis or Liam right now, much less the two of them together.  He adores his daughter, he wants badly to see her again, but he hates himself too much right now. He’s so deep in the hole. Even at her young age, Zayn fears she’d catch the stink of pathetic on him.

What’s more, he doesn’t feel up to being her fun dad, and some twisted part of him has always felt that he’s got to be loads more fun than Liam and Louis are. The only way he can eclipse Liam's everyday presence in her life is to do the things Liam won’t, like spoil her rotten, take her on exciting adventures and hardly ever be cross. 

Zayn isn’t sure if he can be that person right now. When he isn’t with Harry, he feels limp and affectless, like his thoughts are making their way to him from down a long hallway. When he is with Harry, he feels oddly manic, like he’s seventeen again and hellbent on impressing him.

“You’ve got a funny way of showing that,” Louis says sharply.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s work,” Zayn insists.

“You know what, I’m havin’ flashbacks to just after I gave birth,” Louis snaps. “This album had better be worth it, ‘cos that one fuckin’ wasn’t.”

This stings Zayn brutally.

“Fuck off,” he says, surprising both of them.

No one speaks for a moment. Harry is trying to pretend like he isn’t listening, but his face is drawn with concern.

“I call every day,” Zayn mutters. “I dunno what you want. Is she unhappy?”

“She asks about you, yes!”

“I just…” Zayn rubs his face. “When I’m busy like this, I dunno, I don’t want her to see me distracted and think I don’t care, like…”

“Oh, my God, Zayn, Jesus fucking Christ, have you got any idea what it’s like to be a parent _every day_? Distracted or not, tired or not, sick or not --”

“No, I don’t,” Zayn says, exhausted by the venom in his voice. “An’ I’ve told you before how much I appreciate you raisin’ her and takin’ care of so much of the tough shit, ‘cos I really wasn’t ready!”

“Like I was ready?” Louis demands.

“You _chose_ it, mate!”

“What does that matter, at this point?”

“‘Cos I’m sick of you always gettin’ to martyr yourself, and I’m _sick_ of you projectin’ your dad onto me!”

There is a silence over the line so icy that Zayn brings the phone away from his ear in fear. Harry is staring at him with an expression of deep disappointment.

“I’m not havin’ this conversation with you,” Louis finally snarls at him. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. Things were going so well, and you’ve gone and gotten fucked in your head again… I can't believe how much I've been defendin’ you lately. Call me when you’ve dragged yourself back to reality.”

“Louis --”

Louis hangs up on him.

Tears burn at Zayn’s eyes, and he looks down quickly.

Harry starts gathering up his clothes.

“Don’t, don’t,” Zayn mutters, pleading.

“That was a really shitty thing to say to him,” Harry says, shaking off Zayn’s outstretched hand and pulling on his jeans. His face has fallen completely. “That whole conversation was shit on your end, actually… and I think you know that.”

“You don’t know what it’s like, dealin’ with him!”

“I don’t know what it’s like dealing with _Louis?_ ” Harry says incredulously, staring at him. “Are you joking?”

“As another parent? No!” Zayn shouts, barely able to think straight for how frustrated he is.

Harry stands, shirtless, his hands on his hips. Zayn stares at his laurel tattoos where they extend out from under his fingers. The boat rocks underneath them while another silence passes.

“I know you’ve got feelings for him,” Harry says, sounding very tired. “I know that’s why you’ve been such a pain in the arse and a mess since they got married. I know you’re hiding from them both.”

Zayn feels as if the earth has been yanked from beneath his feet. Dazed, he shakes his head. “I want you, I want you,” he murmurs, wishing desperately that he still had that joint.

“I know,” Harry says softly. “But I think you also want him, and you want to be a family with him and your daughter. That sort of takes precedent, doesn’t it? In your mind, at least…”

“I don’t think he'll leave Liam,” Zayn says, gesturing helplessly.

It seems to be the wrong thing to say, yet again. Harry’s nostrils flare.

“Right,” he says, with heavy sarcasm. “Cheers… Glad you aren’t denying any of this.”

“Fuck, that isn’t what I meant, Haz…”

“Don’t call me that,” Harry says, his low voice tight. “We aren’t close anymore. It’s just all this fucking history we’ve got that muddles it up and makes us think differently.”

Zayn is in great pain. He stares at Harry, feeling as if he’s covered in gaping open wounds and Harry is jabbing his fingers in them.

“Don’t look at me all hurt,” Harry says, his green eyes bright and wet. “I’m… you hurt me, and you’re hurting me again… don’t look at me like I hurt you.”

“You did,” Zayn says hoarsely. “You are, though.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Harry says, his voice rough. A single tear escapes his eye and rolls immaculately down his cheek, like he’s filming a scene. Zayn stares at it, transfixed. “Someone ought to. And you’ve been drinking way too much. Someone ought to tell you that, too.”

Zayn feels the flush of humiliation and anger in his cheeks.

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

“Tell yourself that,” Harry says, and finally reaches down for his shirt and pulls it on. “I’ll take us back to the dock and call a car for myself.”

“Let’s talk,” Zayn begs him, “let’s just talk, like…”

“Cool off and get yourself sorted with Louis, and then we’ll talk.”

Harry moves toward the door of the cabin.

“Does it really matter t’ you what the fuck I say to Louis?” Zayn snaps, feeling childish and stubborn.

Harry turns to him, squinting.

"You're asking me if it's a concern to me how you talk to your exes?" he says coolly. "Or to the father of your child? Yes." 

He continues on his way.

Zayn fumbles in his jacket, pulling out his cigarettes and lighting one.

 

*

 

Harry pulls himself together in the car.

He did know what he was getting into by reuniting with Zayn. He’s observed Zayn’s behavior from afar for a while now. He knows Zayn has been drinking like a fish lately. He knows from his few private talks with Liam over the years -- when Liam pounds scotch and really pours his heart out about Zayn, as he doesn’t feel comfortable doing with Louis -- that Zayn has been carrying a torch for Louis, which has only burned more viciously the more Liam and Louis have committed to each other.

“Sounds like typical alcoholic behavior,” Gia Coppola says to him when he meets her for drinks at a rooftop bar on Figueroa. She keeps her voice low, as they're surrounded by other industry people chatting away.

Harry winces and sips his mojito. “I wouldn't go that far quite yet…”

“Oh, babydoll,” she says, looking at him sympathetically. Harry feels foolish, then, and hates it.

“It must be hard,” she says. “You never had any closure with him.”

“I don't usually need that,” he demurs.

“And hardly anyone even knows you two dated in the first place…”

“Well, you know,” Harry mutters, very softly. “I'm an _alpha_ , right?”

He flashes a dry smile at her and she tips her head as if to implore him to be more serious.

“I wish you'd be more forthcoming about that,” Gia whispers, crossing her legs and squinting into the low sun, out over the roofs of Los Angeles. “We don't have enough omega action stars.”

Harry shrugs amiably. “More now than there were before.”

“Still…”

“It isn't as if I lie about it,” Harry says. He isn't any great fan of this particular topic, and he feels itchy every time he's made to discuss it. “I've never said one way or the other. I just let people assume.”

“And what if you want to have a baby someday, or something?”

Harry experiences a familiar tightening in his chest that has been coming intermittently ever since he had an abortion; not regret for the decision he made, but a fear that the fact of it can somehow be smelled on him, and that others will disapprove or not understand.

Someone tries to move by them; he bumps Harry in the back of his head with his elbow and apologizes profusely. Harry flashes a smile at him and turns back to Gia.

“Then I'll have a baby,” he says with a shrug. “I don't need to explain myself. I am who I am.”

“You know, if I were as famous as you, I wouldn't be as well-adjusted,” Gia says, examining him. “You're a rare breed, Styles.”

Harry’s lips tilt up wryly. He finishes his mojito. “Compliment?”

“Of course,” she says, turning away again to look back at the sunset. “Yes.”

They fall into silence then. Harry is tipsy, now, and his thoughts continually turn to Zayn. He’s very hurt, but at the same time keeps forcing himself to guiltily relive the harsh things he said, and the crumpling of Zayn's face when he said them.

He doesn't want to hurt Zayn. He doesn't want to be hurt by Zayn. Their relationship is a minefield, a maze of trapdoors and barbed wire.

Harry finds it profoundly difficult not to resent Louis, who by no fault of his own will remain idealized in Zayn's mind thanks to his unattainability and the simple fact that he had Zayn's baby. He's everything that a broken, drunken, lonely Zayn would be primed to latch onto. It's the romantic ideal of the ready-made family he can never have, and wouldn't be equipped to take care of if he could.

 

*

 

“I hate this fuckin’ track,” Zayn mutters to his producer, Mike, reaching out to pause it by slapping the keyboard.

Mike puts his hands up. “Whoa,” he says, seeming baffled. “Man. This was your favorite one, you fought for this one every step of the way.”

“I don't care, I want it off, it makes me sound pathetic,” Zayn says, trying very hard to keep his composure.

He stands up in the darkness of the recording booth, dragging hard off a spliff and French inhaling it back into his sinuses.

“Where's the Xans?” he mumbles.

Mike beckons him back over and holds out a bag. Zayn takes one, grinds it up on the console and snorts it. It stings viciously in his nostrils, but he needs to feel that right now. His mouth fills with sour-tasting saliva, and he spits into a bin.

The song in question is about Louis, though not specifically; close examination of the lyrics would not reveal any damning specifics. To those unaware of his lingering feelings, it could be about any of his exes. It is by far the most heartbroken and plaintive song on the record.

“This is a great track, man,” Mike pleads. “It's like, signaling your move into a more mature sound. It's a great ballad. This is Adele shit, it'll make people cry in their cars.”

“I don' _want_ that,” Zayn says, and he takes another drag. He feels dizzy with the frustration of trying to make Mike understand him. “The Weeknd, he don't do that shit --”

“Are you kidding? He's got ballads like this! Absolutely! You've even written shit like this before, just not this raw.”

“It's _too_ raw,” Zayn says, his voice throaty and hoarse from all the smoking he's done since he and Harry parted ways earlier.

“It's your decision, but like, I’d ask you to reconsider,” Mike says, looking at him from the corner of his eye like he's trying to puzzle Zayn out without indicating that he is.

Behind him, the door opens and one of his writers, Tamra, sidles in with a tray of coffee.

“Hey,” she says warmly. “Ooh, what's wrong? Everybody looks jumpy.”

“Zayn's not feeling _What About Me_ as much anymore _,_ ” Mike says evasively.

“Oh no!” Tamra exclaims, handing Zayn a coffee and very skillfully guiding him back into his seat. He stares numbly at her.

“That is actually my favorite track,” she tells him. “I'll be really upset if you scrap that one, seriously.”

She fixes him with a plaintive look she likely knows he'll by swayed by.

“I'll think about it,” Zayn acquiesces, and sips his coffee. "Thanks."

“Sleep on it, at least,” Mike tells him.

Zayn shrugs and looks down at his phone, trying to answer texts despite having the spins. Beside him, Mike and Tamra exchange a glance.

 

*

 

“This is really just getting ridiculous,” Liam shouts as he slashes at their boxwoods with a cordless hedge trimmer.

Louis stands ten or so feet back, sweating in the summer heat and deeply frustrated. “I sincerely dunno what you want me to do about it, Payno.”

“Talk to him! Yell at him!”

For some baffling reason, Liam thought it would be a good idea to do yard work at the hottest time of the day. The sun burns above them, high in the sky, perilous and indiscriminatory. Liam perspires below, soaking through his white shirt.

He turns the trimmer off. His eyebrows are knitted, heavy over his eyes.

“I _have_ ,” Louis screams, infuriated. “I’ve done exactly that!”

“Let's take this inside,” Liam snaps, tossing his eye protectors to the side and shooting Louis an unhappy look. Louis storms ahead, leading the way, slamming open the patio door.

Mia isn't home; they don't want to disrupt her routine of leaving them on weekends, so she's been trading off having time with each of their parents. No one’s had any complaints thus far, except for Mia, who obviously misses her father.

They go upstairs so Liam can change from his sweaty clothes. The air conditioning is blasting so forcefully that Louis shivers as they pass through the hall. He goes to perch on the bed while Liam steps out of his work boots and peels off his tank-top. His muscles stand out from exertion. Louis would think he looked good right now, if he weren't furious with him.

Louis is at his wits end with Zayn, but gets no relief from Liam, who is less concerned about solving the problem at hand and more fixated on naming why Zayn is doing this.

Even less helpful has been therapy, where Louis is lately bombarded by Lena with questions on how he _feels_ about Zayn going AWOL, which he responds to with pure and genuine exasperation. It doesn't matter how any of them feel, all that matters is getting Zayn home so his daughter can see him.

“Tell me how to do that,” he begged her, and she just sat, impassive and imperious.

Liam turns to Louis, his hands on his hips. “We've got to do something,” he says, his deep voice uneven. “Even I have to fly out to LA and drag him back here --”

Louis shakes his head violently. “No!”

“Louis --”

“You're bein’ absurd! No! He'll come back, he'll come back --”

“Right, but _when_?”

“When he's gotten this out of his system!” Louis shoots back. “When he's good and tired of this -- look, Liam, ‘e's been a dad nearly every weekend for four years --”

“And we've been dads nearly every day for the same amount of time!” Liam shouts, looking stricken. “Why does he get to skive off and sow his oats!”

“We settled down!”

Louis feels himself beginning to panic and takes a few deep breaths. Liam comes closer and seems to soften.

“I just don't understand why you keep defending him,” he says, in a gentler voice. “This is your daughter together, she adores him, she's going to think it's her fault --”

“I won't let her,” Louis cries, pained. “I _won't_.”

Liam leans down, hands on the bed, breathing heavily.

“Come here,” Louis tells him. “Come here, I don't want to fight anymore…”

Liam looks up at him, all dark eyes and tense mouth, but he approaches Louis and wraps his arms around him. Louis kisses him, hard, and Liam presses him back against the bed in turn.

“You're trying to distract me,” Liam whispers throatily, right into Louis’ ear. Tingles race down his spine.

“I don't want to fight,” Louis repeats, in his most breathy and seductive voice. Liam groans and yanks his trousers down, tugging them off his arse and over his legs. Louis does the same for him, then presses his hands to Liam’s sweaty chest and tips his head back, staring him in the eye.

“We have to talk,” Liam murmurs, as he kisses down Louis’ chest, over his nipples and down his stomach.

“I don't want to talk about this anymore,” Louis begs, “don't you -- _ahh_ \-- don't you get it? Don't you get how bad he's hurtin’ me with this, I can't control him, I've --”

Liam takes Louis’ cock in his mouth.

“Oh, fuck, _fuck_ \--”

Liam blows him, then, taking Louis very deep into his throat and sucking at him single-mindedly, as if to drive other thoughts from his mind. He begins to finger him and Louis moans sloppily, writhing, begging for more.

Liam shoves him back across the bed and makes quick eye contact with him. Louis nods emphatically, and Liam pushes into him, groaning as Louis gasps. Liam grips his hair and tightens his fingers. Louis spreads his legs wide.

They have very rough, impassioned sex. It isn't comfortable or tender. They've both got their blood up, incensed by factors entirely outside their control. Liam wants to remember that he's Louis’ and Louis is his. Louis wants badly to be reminded.

“I love you,” Liam says hoarsely to him. “I’m sorry it’s been a tough few weeks, here.”

Louis nods, the back of his head rubbing hard against the sheets. He just wants to make his husband feel good, to soothe him.

“I love you too,” he breathes.

 

*

 

Louis pours his heart out to Lena the following day. He’s worn down to the bone from this entire situation, especially after a breakneck few months of planning a wedding and expanding his management company from two floors in downtown London to four, overseeing hirings and firings, and keeping a happy face on for his daughter in spite of all of this.

Lena looks at him hesitantly after he finishes. She scribbles something on her notepad. Her mouth tightens.

Louis stares at her, concerned.

“I’m going to do something I’ve been considering for a while,” she says, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “Something we've discussed before.”

Louis is dizzy with fear. His therapist’s individual features ebb and fade in his vision until she is nothing more than a smear of dark hair and a pair of specs. His heart beats jerkily in his chest.

“If you're alright with it,” she says, “I'm going to write you a prescription for Zoloft.”

“What?” he says, gripping the armchair he’s in and leaning forward.

“It’s an anti-depressant --”

“I know what it is,” he says in despair. “Not _depressed_ , though, am I?”

“Love, the way you’ve described yourself to me in our last six or so visits speaks to someone who actually is experiencing an episode of depression.”

“I’m not!” he says hotly. “I’m doing better! I -- I made it through the tour okay, work is great, I just got _married_ , for fuck’s sake --”

“Getting married is one of the most stressful life events there is.”

Louis buries his face in his hands.

“It’s just this thing with Zayn,” he says, very softly. “I just -- if I could fix it --”

“Louis, this issue with Zayn is not your fault, and the onus is not on you to fix it.”

There’s a lump in his throat.

“He’s avoiding me ‘cos of the wedding,” he whispers hoarsely. “Me an’ Liam… he still thinks Liam’s trying to take his daughter from him…”

Lena looks at him with sympathy. “Here,” she says, handing him a scrip.

He takes it, numbly and wordlessly.

“There are instructions on there. I’m having you start on a low dose. You can say no, of course.”

Louis doesn’t say no.

Lena continues on. Her voice sounds as if it’s coming from a distance further than the five feet between them.

“I'll monitor you very closely over the next few weeks. If you experience some of the more common side effects, we can switch you to Wellbutrin. If any suicidal ideation occurs, seek medical attention and call me immediately. It is a risk with this class of drugs. I don’t expect you to be on Zoloft long-term… I’m simply trying to give you a tool to deal with what’s on your plate right now, and we can re-examine as things improve…”

 

*

 

Louis is still in a fog when he picks Mia up from preschool. She breaks away from her pals and runs to him when she sees him. He bends down and hugs her, squeezing her tightly.

“Daddy,” she says uncertainly, after he’s been doing this for a bit longer than usual.

He draws back from her and kisses her on the forehead. “Sorry, darling. Missed you.”

“I was at school,” she says, seeming puzzled.

Louis picks her up and settles her into the backseat, doing up her seat belt. “I know.”

He turns around to get in the driver's side right as a group of chatting parents walk toward him down the sidewalk; most of them wave cheerily at him, and he waves back. Two of the more posh mums pretend to be too absorbed in their conversation to notice him.

Louis has gotten over it now, but it used to really bother him that the stuffy and old-moneyed parents here didn't extend a welcoming hand to him when Mia began attending. Liam had some very helpful perspective on it that boiled down to, “They don’t like you because you’re young, tattooed, unmarried and cool, and they are just grumpy old Kate Middleton wannabes who have tea parties all day, so who cares?”

Once he’s in the car, Mia begins babbling away as kids that age do, and Louis half-listens to her, half-listens to the news on the radio.

He’s drifted into a fugue state of concentrating on the road when he realizes that the Carpenters’ cover of _Superstar_ has come on. His breath catches in his throat.

At Mia’s first birthday party, Zayn had had several glasses of wine and been more frank with Louis than he’d been in ages. He’d just been through another breakup, this one with an Instagram model of negligible fame. He and Louis had gravitated toward each other, sharing in the shock that their daughter was already a year old. They’d been more tender and kind to each other than they'd been in a very long time.

Louis’ Spotify was on shuffle, and this song had played. Zayn grew morose and wistful. Louis nudged him and asked what was wrong, and he’d said, “Used to listen to this when you were pregnant… made me think of you.”

Before Louis could respond, they’d been interrupted by someone he had to play host with and had lost the quiet peace between them.

Listening to it now, Louis can’t help but think of Zayn, of how the tables have turned, how desperate he is for Zayn to come home to his daughter. He thinks of the Zoloft prescription in his glove compartment.

Louis begins to cry silently. Before long, he’s weeping, barely able to see and being honked at for how slow he’s driving. He pulls over. He quickly wipes his eyes and hands Mia an iPad, smiling at her so she doesn’t worry. Then he steps out of the car and rings Liam.

Liam doesn’t pick up. Louis feels a dark panic rising in his throat and chest. He rings again.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m here!” Liam exclaims the moment he answers. Louis leans onto the top of the car in relief. He tries to speak and chokes on a sob.

“Babe... _babe!_ Is everything alright?”

Liam sounds very frightened, like he expects to hear that Zayn’s been found dead, or something. Louis assures him through his tears that nothing is wrong. When he’s composed himself, he chokes out, “I’m just havin’ a bad day, is all…”

“Oh, Tommo… should I leave work?”

“Can you?”

“Absolutely,” Liam says immediately.

“Alright,” Louis sniffs. “I’ll call mine and tell ‘em I won’t be back in.”

“Okay, do that. I’ll meet you at home.”

 

*

 

He beats Liam home and waits for him in the kitchen, despondent.

Louis hears his car roll past the gate and then his key in the front door and he hurries through the foyer, meeting him in the doorway and colliding with him. Liam wraps his arms around him, hard, and holds him close.

“I can't make him come back,” Louis whispers. “Don't act like I can --

Liam takes in a very deep breath and then sighs, his entire body relaxing against Louis, his hands splaying out across his back.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. I’ve been, like, dumb and stubborn about this. I know.”

“Don't be,” Louis says, aching. “Just stop.”

“I will,” Liam swears. “We’re married, we’re a team in this, you and me. The dream team, always. We’ll find a solution together.”

Louis goes quiet for a while and stays still in the shelter of Liam's arms, pressed against him, feeling his heart thud like a metronome in his chest.

Liam pulls back from him eventually and holds him by the shoulders, studying his face carefully. Louis bites his lip.

He slips his fingers in the breast pocket of his shirt and produces the scrip, handing it to Liam.

Liam reads it, uncomprehending.

“I've gone crazy,” Louis helpfully explains.

“What?”

“I'm in the midst of a depression, apparently,” Louis says, rocking back and forth on his heels. His jaw is tight. “So says Lena.”

“Depression?” Liam repeats, and looks up from the slip of paper with an expansive sadness in his dark eyes. Louis feels sick.

“I dunno,” he mutters. “I dunno.”

Liam says nothing for several moments. Louis looks down. He doesn't want to explain or account for himself. He wants to lie down in a dark room.

“Right, then… want me to go fill this for you?” Liam finally says, in a gentle voice. “And pick up some sushi for dinner, maybe?”

Louis’ chest quakes with gratitude. He glances up and gives him a wobbly smile.

“Yes, Payno,” he whispers.

Liam kisses him on the forehead. “Alright. I'll check in with Mia and then I'll head out.”

“Take her with you,” Louis murmurs.

Liam glances at him.

“I just want to lie down, is all.”

“Okay,” Liam says, making a rather obvious effort to hide his anxiety. He's got no poker face when it comes to Louis. “Okay. And then we'll talk about this?”

Louis nods firmly.

Liam squeezes his hand and takes his leave into the living room, where Mia is absorbed in a television program. Louis goes up to their bedroom. The stairs seem to have grown in height and number since this morning.

He heaves himself onto the bed, still dressed in his work clothes, and allows himself to finish his interrupted cry.


	4. PART IV

Zayn spends two days shacked up at his ex-boyfriend and sometimes-collaborator Omar’s place, trying desperately to write a song that makes use of his frustrations with Harry. He comes up with nothing but a bunch of shit and tripe. Omar provides him with an excellent and catchy beat, one that Zayn can’t seem to do justice to. Exasperated with himself, he abruptly heads out, planning to go to a secluded beach somewhere and get profoundly stoned on edibles until he has a creative breakthrough.

Omar sees him off, bemused; he and Zayn dated so briefly that they’re more like friends who have seen each other’s cocks a few times.

“Feel better?” he calls as Zayn climbs into an Escalade, for lack of anything else to say. Zayn waves.

In the car, BBC One is on Sirius XM; with a jolt, Zayn recognizes Liam’s voice.

“Sorry, man,” his security Stefan says, muting it. “I wasn’t thinking --”

“No, keep it on,” Zayn urges, his stomach twisting. He knows hearing this interview will make him miserable, but he can’t seem to help the desire to inflict it on himself.

Stefan turns it up.

“So you two were supposed to join us _last_ week,” Nick Grimshaw says. “You turds. Had to shuffle my lineup around. Louis was sick?”

“Ah, yeah,” Louis says.

Zayn’s heart stops at the sound of Louis’ sweet, scratchy voice. He clutches the armrest beside him with one hand and lights a cigarette with the other.

“Sorry about that. Had a touch of the flu.”

“So the reason I’ve got you on,” Nick says, “is you’ve got sort of a cute story -- this up and coming hip-hop artist, Tony Matthews, he was on the X Factor --”

“Where we met!” Louis chirps.

Liam laughs.

Hurt throbs in Zayn’s veins.

“Right, where you met! And he didn’t make it past first cuts, but Louis, you plucked him from obscurity… you can tell the rest,” Nick says.

“I don’t know if I plucked ‘im from obscurity,” Louis says, chuckling. His voice sounds worn-out and thin in a way Zayn recognizes -- not like he’s sick, as he claimed, but like he’s been having a rough time of it, emotionally. Zayn’s guilt rockets to the surface, and he pushes it down again. “I think someone would’ve snatched him up, if it wasn’t me. But I’m glad it was me, ‘cos he’s a real talent.”

“And then Liam…” Nick prods.

“And then Liam,” Liam says. Everyone chuckles. Zayn rolls his eyes, but it’s half-hearted, because hearing Liam’s voice always makes Zayn miss him. “Um, yeah, Louis manages him, and my label signed him, and then I’ve been working with him on his first record. So it’s been cool. We have him over for dinner quite a bit. His parents probably think we’re trying to steal him or something.”

There’s more laughter at this. Zayn leans back against the seats, smoking more quickly, already toying with another one in the pack.

“And you two have just gotten married…”

“God, yeah, finally,” Louis says.

“Just had our fifth anniversary, too,” Liam says, sounding all loved-up and disgusting about it.

Zayn closes his eyes.

“When was this?” Nick demands. “I wasn’t invited!”

“We went to dinner alone and had it off in the limo, Nick, but I’ll invite you along next time,” Louis jokes.

“What’s the date, though?”

Louis and Liam fall into an awkward silence. It’s only around three seconds long, but on the radio, that sounds like an eternity. Zayn is gratified in a twisted way by the fact that they’re embarrassed of when and how they got together.

“August fifth,” Louis finally supplies, before their lack of response becomes truly strange. He says it quietly and quickly, as if rushing through it will prevent anyone from doing the math on his pregnancy. Zayn is surprised he didn’t just flat-out lie.

“Ah, you forget?” Nick says, giving them an out.

Liam laughs awkwardly.

“I’m done,” Zayn calls. “Turn it off.”

The radio cuts out. Zayn lights his second cigarette.

 

*

 

The UNICEF masquerade ball is one of Harry’s favorite charity events. He loves the cause; the letters he exchanges with the children he personally sponsors are some of the most genuine conversations he has these days. He loves the event itself, too, loves dressing up in a fancy mask and tails and dancing with his strangers all night, pretending he's anonymous.

The ballroom they're in this year has a massive ceiling so arching and dark that it feels like looking up at the night sky. Around midnight, Harry is flushed with liquor and has just come to the conclusion that he might go home with his indie actress friend Sloane, who's been dancing with him for hours and ran her palm up his thigh during the last one.

He excuses himself for a wee. His pals all boo, not wanting him to leave the table, clingy in their drunkenness.

On his way out of the bathroom, he runs straight into a man in the dark hall.

“Sorry,” he says immediately, reaching out to right him.

The man looks up. Harry would recognize those eyelashes and that mouth anywhere. He drops his hands.

“Don’t need to apologize, I was in your way,” Zayn murmurs.

“What’re you doing here?” Harry says, for lack of another response. His palms are damp already; his stomach is squeezing with discomfited arousal.

“I come to this most years,” Zayn says coolly. “I do charity too, Styles. You jus’ always avoid me, ‘s’all.”

The muted sound of a full band filters in as someone opens a door, and then fades as it shuts again.

“How can I avoid you if I don't even know you’re here?” Harry shoots back, keeping his voice very quiet and even as he does. “It isn't my fault you're a ghost...”

Zayn slides his hands over Harry’s hips and looks at him. Harry has difficulty breathing. Zayn's hands leave warm tingles wherever they land.

Zayn moves them both bodily, like they're dancing. He pushes Harry up against the wall.

“Someone's coming,” Harry whispers, watching over his shoulder.

Zayn leans into his neck. His hot breath is so erotic on his throat that Harry’s thighs quake. Zayn cups and squeezes his arse. Harry can't think.

“Stop, Zayn, stop,” he whispers as the bloke down the hall grows closer. “Someone’ll see, stop…”

“We’re in masks, ‘s’alright,” Zayn says throatily.

The aroused tenor of his voice makes Harry’s cock throb.

“You look so good tonight,” Zayn tells him.

The man passes without comment or even a sidelong glance, and disappears into the bathroom.

“My friends’ll look for me,” Harry says, his voice soft and catching in his throat from how bad he wants this.

Zayn grins. His teeth flash in the dark.

 

*

 

Harry ends up in Zayn’s limo being fucked by his fingers.

His nice clothes lay abandoned on the floor as they splay naked across the seats. Zayn's mask rests discarded on the bar and Harry's lies somewhere behind him; Harry’s head is pounding from the shots they took out of the bottle of tequila he stole for them on their way out, and the furious bass-heavy rap that's pounding in the speakers.

He moans, his head lolling from pleasure. Zayn chases his mouth, kissing him filthily and with loads of tongue as he rubs his fingers hard against Harry’s prostate. Harry arches his back.

Harry’s phone dings with another text. He knows it's Niall, who had wanted to meet up with him at this event and is probably baffled to find him having scarpered. Harry feels a stab of guilt that vanishes as soon as Zayn’s hand closes around his cock.

 

*

 

Zayn apologizes to him when they get in the house, staggering, both drunk. He apologizes in the shower as he bends Harry over, putting Harry’s ballet training and Pilates to fine use as he eats his arse then stands up and pounds away at him. Harry stays in a bridge position, his hands pressed to the shower wall. He moans low and keening as Zayn’s cock slams deep into him, rubbing insistently against his already-teased prostate. He comes without being touched, all over himself, then Zayn washes him with a wet flannel and kisses him.

Zayn apologizes again when they fall into bed together, wet and bone-tired, smelling like each other. Harry lies back across his white silk sheets and murmurs to him, “Stop it, stop. Stop saying you're sorry.”

“Alright,” Zayn whispers, rubbing his thumb over Harry’s cheek.

“If I didn't forgive you, you wouldn't be here.”

“Alright…”

Harry was uncomfortable with the apologies since they began, not only because the sheer number of them indicated insincerity, but because of the way Zayn apologizes now -- frantic, needy, anxious. He’s begun apologizing like an alcoholic. Harry can hear the unvoiced exhortations: _you must forgive me. I need forgiveness. I need forgiveness so that I won't feel as guilty next time._

He didn't go into this with any illusions. He knows this is their bad timing acting up all over again. He knows this can't last. The circumstances are designed to swallow and crush this affair. It wouldn't survive the fall or the winter.

Harry clings desperately to Zayn anyway, wanting him so badly that he can't see straight -- can't see the writing on the wall.

Harry feels very small and burdened as he lies in bed with Zayn, his gorgeous Zayn, gentle Zayn, confused and lost and difficult Zayn, anxious and depressed Zayn.

Zayn rests on top of him, utterly comfortable, their bodies so warm and lovely together. Zayn: drunk, wistful, momentarily content.

For just a moment, a brief moment, everything is alright. They're alone in the world. All he can hear is the two of them breathing softly, post-coitally. Zayn moves further up on the bed and presses a sweet kiss to one of Harry’s sparrows.

His phone buzzes, then. Niall is responding to his blow-off text.

 _alrite lad well let's pls talk soon anyway haven't seen u in a minute,_ he says.

 _Absolutely_ , Harry says. _drinks this week._

He hesitates, then sends: _I've got a lot to tell you._

 

*

 

Harry wakes to Zayn on the phone with Louis.

He's trying to be subtle about it, Harry can tell. He makes a decent attempt at pretending to still be asleep, but he's never been good at that. He opens his eyes slowly.

“I understand,” Zayn murmurs. “No, I'm like -- God, will you let me talk? I've just finished one… I ‘ad to make a last minute substitution…”

Zayn goes quiet.

“No, there isn't anythin’ else going on,” he says.

Harry rolls away from him, facing the open window. A breeze blows his linen curtains; a bumblebee flits clumsily around the honeysuckle on his balcony. Harry focuses on that instead of Zayn’s voice. He pulls the sheet up around him, feeling exposed and indecent knowing Louis is on the other line.

“As soon as me record’s done,” Zayn says. “I swear.”

Harry’s chest is tight.

Zayn sighs, then comes close, wrapping his arms around Harry and kissing his shoulder.

“You should go back,” Harry says softly.

“I will.”

“Tomorrow,” Harry says. “Book a flight. Go.”

“I wrote a song about you,” Zayn murmurs.

Harry rolls over and looks at him, half-lidded. Zayn kisses him on the mouth.

“Want bagels?”

“I’d love a bagel,” Harry says.

“I'll send Stefan.”

Zayn’s mouth and hands leave him, and the mattress springs up again as he moves away and gets to his feet. The bathroom door shuts, and then the water begins to run.

 

*

 

“This isn't working, man,” Mike says into the mic.

“What?” Zayn demands, taking his headphones off and coming to the glass of the recording booth. “The fuck are you on about?”

“It doesn't flow with the rest of the album, Zayn,” he says, sounding like he's at the end of his patience. Zayn flashes him a dark look to remind him exactly how much money he pays for Mike’s patience. Mike demurs, glancing down.

“It sounds,” he says, “like you're trying too hard to put certain feelings into words. It's overwrought, it overpowers the good beat. I'm sorry, I'm just being honest. _What About Me_ flows better, it's more real, less labored --”

“It’s not goin’ on!” Zayn screams, throwing his headphones. They clatter to the floor. “It ain't! So tell me what of what I've written on this I can replace it, ‘cos I owe the label thirteen full fuckin’ songs, mate!”

“ _What About Me_ has a depth to it, Zayn. It's a song you thought about writing for years, you said that to yourself, that can't be faked or manufactured or rushed in a three-day writing session --”

Zayn wants to vomit from the pain of his thwarted love for Louis. He can hardly breathe.

“I know you've got some, like… baggage, here,” Mike says kindly, and Zayn is grateful they're the only two people in the studio. “I, uh. I understand this is like showing the entire world the stab wound in your gut. But, man… it's your art. That's where art comes from. It's such a good track. Please believe me.”

He looks up at Zayn with pleading dark eyes.

“I'll think on it,” Zayn murmurs. “Sorry I -- I’m sorry. I'll think on it.”

“No apologies necessary. And that's all I can ask.”

 

*

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Niall says, and then pounds half his IPA in one chug. “Is anyone in this band ever not shaggin’ each other?”

“Zayn's not in the band,” Harry says helpfully. He tosses a handful of peanuts into his mouth and raises an eyebrow at Niall.

“Don't do that,” Niall pleads. “Let's be frank about this.”

“Why, so you can tell me how badly I've played this one? How naive I've been acting?” Harry says bitterly, looking away from Niall, past his balcony and out across the Hollywood Hills.

Niall runs his hands through his bleached hair and sighs deeply. He removes his aviators and sets them onto the marble surface of the table.

“Poor Harry,” Harry says, in a nasty, warped voice. “He's so lucky, he's a star, but he cry cry cries in his lonely heart --”

“I've never said anythin’ like that to you!” Niall exclaims, looking upset.

“You don't have to,” Harry says. He squints into the sun, choked up, willing himself not to get any more upset than he already is. “I can feel it. Over and over again, especially bad since January --”

“You had t’ make a really hard decision, Haz, of course I worried about you --”

“I'm fine!” Harry exclaims, feeling frantic with the need for Niall to understand this.

“Zayn,” Niall begins. “He’s not…”

Niall looks away now, too, drumming his fingers on the table.

“He’s not in a good place,” Niall says quietly. “Me friends in common wit’ him have all mentioned that, like, that he's been spiraling out this summer --”

“I know,” Harry says, slowly, enunciating every inch of the word. “I know.”

“Then why not leave it? Try again some other time? I know you two are always gonna be hung up on each other, but man, Harry… I truly dunno if it’s worth it right now, lad…”

Harry folds his arms tightly across his chest. He stretches his legs out in front of him, staring at the label on his beer bottle. The beer has diffused through his body, sunk into him, made him that much more moody.

“I just wanted to do something stupid, for once,” he says after a while, very softly, feeling quite ridiculous as he says it.

Niall nods.

“I wanted… him,” Harry says, embarrassed. “You don’t get it, like, I gave him up, willingly, for my career -- I was so scared that people would find out, or that it’d hurt the band. I made that choice. But it didn’t mean I didn’t love him. I feel like, almost, like no one felt sorry for me in that breakup ‘cos hardly anyone knew about it… and the people who did thought it was my choice...”

He shakes his head.

“Wasn’t a choice,” he mutters. “I never had real choices. I was fucking seventeen. I did the smart and calculated thing, I’m allowed to mourn for it. That was like, the end of my childhood right there. When I broke up with him, and then the band got huge right after. That was it.”

Niall reaches out and grabs his hand, squeezing it. He gives Harry a look of deep understanding and genuine sympathy. Harry smiles weakly at him and squeezes him back.

“I know it isn’t the right time,” Harry says, allowing his grief to break over him. “We might not ever get a right time, though. And I wanted him for a few more nights. A few more months. Just a little reminder of what I missed.”

“He don’t deserve you, right now,” Niall says, his voice soft and rough. He strokes his thumb over Harry’s hand. “Not the way he’s been actin’.”

“I’m not a saint,” Harry murmurs. “I’m not naive. I don’t need to be cloistered away. I can handle myself.”

“Well, when it’s all said and done,” Niall says, “I’m here. Come have a beer with me and Barb and trash him all you like. We’ll play Pictionary.”

Harry laughs hard at this. “Standing offer?”

“Standing offer. Always.”

 

*

 

“Mr Tomlinson, may I speak with you a moment?”

Louis has bent down to tie Mia’s shoelace for her, and looks up to see her preschool minder, Miss Thorton, hovering over both of them.

“Aye, yeah,” he says, and pats Mia on the shoulder. “Go play for a bit longer, sweets.”

Mia happily scampers off back to her friends.

He straightens up and clears his throat. He’s been foggy-minded and grouchy lately from the Zoloft; Liam has been tiptoeing around him and making him endless cups of tea. Louis can’t help thinking this summer is an eerie echo of the time after he’d had Mia -- when he was confused and cranky from lack of sleep and his post-pregnancy brain, angry with Zayn and desperate for him to quit with the excuses and just come do his job.

“I’m a little concerned about Mia,” Thorton says, taking him by the shoulder and leading him out of earshot of the children, over to her desk.

“Isn’t she doing quite well?” Louis says, confused. He takes a seat.

“Oh, she is,” Thorton assures him. “Sometimes young children find our year-round program frustrating, they feel they ought to be off for one big chunk in the summer the way their public school friends are. But Mia’s very bright, she seems to genuinely enjoy learning.”

Louis is very proud to hear this. He smiles down at his clasped hands in his lap.

“But you’re concerned?” he murmurs.

“Not about her academic performance. Concerned about her play, actually,” Thorton says, glancing behind him, over his shoulder. “She’s become more destructive and aggressive…”

Louis shrugs. “So was I, at that age.”

“Right, but when she plays house, there’s this pervasive theme of…”

Miss Thorton bites her lip.

“Fatherlessness?”

Louis laughs, high and harsh. His heart speeds up and his palms prickle.

“That’s a bit absurd,” he snaps. “She’s got three fathers.”

“Right, and one is currently absent?”

“You know what? This is really none of your business whatsoever.”

He stands.

“Mr Tomlinson,” Thorton says, her voice low and soothing. Louis hates that.

“I appreciate your concern,” he says, with great difficulty. “I’m glad you brought this up to me.”

“Mr Tomlinson --”

“Have a nice day,” he says, smiling at her and giving a little wave.

Louis removes Mia from her friends, much to her protest. He leads her out to the car park and settles her in her booster seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a white lens peeking out the window of a black sedan at the other end of the lot. His blood boils over.

“I’ll be right back, love,” he says.

“Daddy!” Mia complains.

“Just a second,” he promises, and he reaches into the driver’s side to start the air conditioning before he shuts the doors and storms over to the sedan.

As he approaches, the tinted window is frantically rolled up. He bangs on it until they roll it down again.

“Hey, mate,” says a bearded and portly pap he recognizes, Greg Winters. He says it apologetically, but Louis knows he’s only sorry because he got caught.

Louis pushes his sunglasses up onto his head and bends down so their faces are level.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, comin’ to my daughter’s preschool?” he hisses in a rage.

“We’ve come here before, you know,” Greg exclaims, as if that makes it better.

“Yeah, and I ain’t caught you before,” Louis snarls. “But I caught you today!”

“I told you to just shoot _through_ the bloody window, Greg,” the driver whispers. “You and that massive honkin’ lens --”

“Shut up!” Greg cries. “Look, Louis --”

“Don’t call me my first name like you _know_ me, or summat! You fuckin’ rats, I swear to God. You know you’re on private property right now? Want me to call the bobbies?”

“No!”

“Don’t use any of those,” Louis tells him, breathing hard. “They were taken illegally, and I know exactly who to come after. Still work for the _Sun_?”

“I don’t understand what the problem is today,” Greg says in desperation, “we shoot her when you take her to footie games, we shoot her when you take her to the park --”

“You think I don’t hate _all_ that?” Louis shouts in his face. “You think it doesn’t make me sick? Jesus fuckin’ Christ! I just ‘appened to catch you ‘cos you’re stupid and you got unlucky today! I’d ‘ave all your fingers crushed so you couldn’t operate a camera, if it was up to me! Every last one of ya!”

“Louis --”

“ _Fuck off!_ Get my name out of your cunt mouth! And I best not see those photos _anywhere!”_

He hits the car hard as he walks away. The metal sings, and his palm immediately aches.

Louis breathes deeply on the walk back. He calms himself enough to be able to put a smile on when he gets in the driver’s side and turns back to look at Mia.

She gazes back at him, with an expression beyond her years.

“I heard yelling,” she says.

“No worries,” he says breezily. “Just had to sort out a misunderstanding.”

Mia stares at him, reading his face. He gives her nothing but cheer.

“Let’s go somewhere,” he says. “Anywhere. You pick. It’s Friday, we’re free agents.”

Mia glances out the window.

“I want McDonald’s,” she says.

Louis laughs with great fondness at this.

“I want to play in the play palace,” she says, smiling at his laughter. “And I want Mickey to come.”

“Alright,” Louis says bracingly, getting out his phone. “It’s a plan, then. I’ll call her mum and see.”

 

*

 

The night he pulls the trigger on the final setlist for his record, Zayn goes out clubbing. He swigs straight Yamazaki like it’s water, gripping the bottle in his sweaty hand. He lets the bass pound into him and dances with anybody who wants him, sticking his fingers indiscriminately down skirts and trousers, grabbing arses and sucking on necks.

He thinks only of Harry, wishing it was his arse and his neck. He yearns for a reality in which they could do this publicly. He even yearns for when they were seventeen and eighteen, when they thought their romance was so star-crossed and complicated, when Zayn got to feel like the bad boy from across the tracks throwing pebbles at the window of the breakout star, the Cheshire golden boy, the curly-haired little teen heartthrob who was coveted by the entire world but who grinned at Zayn in the darkness of the night and spread his pale thighs for him to slide between.

Zayn feels ancient. He has a daughter. He has emotional baggage. He drinks too much and does too many drugs. He has a co-parent who spurned him and broke his heart. He has enemies and exes galore. He has three records, each murkier than the next.

He has a song about Louis that will be mastered onto his record along with the rest of the final mix. He has a song about Louis that will be analyzed and broken apart by Pitchfork and quoted in Instagram bios by maudlin teenagers. Louis will hear it on the radio, and wonder. Harry will hear it on the radio, too, and he won’t have to wonder. He’ll know.

His song about Harry died on its feet. It was a messy jumble; ten years of emotions shakily jammed into three minutes. Mike was right to put his foot down. Zayn is miserable over it, anyway.

Off of this record, there is one song he’s unambiguously proud of; an emotional ode to Mia. He feels terribly guilty every time he hears it, knowing what a shit dad he’s been lately. He hopes that she’ll listen to this record in entirety when she’s older and somewhat understand. He hopes she’s enough like him that she won’t hold it against him that just this once, he had to disappear. He wonders if she’ll someday feel the same need to disappear.

Zayn wonders if she’ll be like Louis instead, and think that abandonment and disloyalty are the single worst crimes a human being can commit. He hopes not.

 

*

 

Harry has given up on waiting for a text back from Zayn and is lotioned up, ready to go to sleep, when he gets a call from security.

“Your boy is here,” Robb says.

“Christ,” Harry mutters. “Alright, send him up.”

“Drunk, I should add.”

Harry hears the judgment and concern in Robb’s voice. This is the seventh or eighth time now that Zayn has shown up to his house loaded.

“Got it. Send him up, though, please.”

Harry waits for Zayn at the top of his staircase, his arms crossed, naked except for boxers, his rings and his tattoos. He taps his fingers against his bicep as he waits for Zayn’s footsteps to grow closer.

Zayn appears at the bottom of the stairs, hobbled by drunkenness, his hand going for the rail. He looks up at Harry pitifully. Harry’s heart clenches at the sight of him.

“Thought we had a date tonight,” Harry says coolly.

“I ‘ad a shit day,” Zayn slurs. “‘Ad to blow off steam… sorry… I’m ‘ere now…”

Harry turns around and walks away, toward his bedroom. Zayn follows him.

He sits on the bed and clasps his hands. Zayn hovers in the doorway.

“Doesn’t matter much,” Harry says quietly, and shrugs. “It isn’t like we can go out for dinner or something, anyway…”

“We could,” Zayn says, with the stupid wishfulness of a drunken person. “We could just… do that.”

“No,” Harry says. His body tenses and he makes a conscious effort to relax. “No, I’m not getting dragged into this… I dunno… PR mess you’ve made, I’m not becoming a part of that narrative. I’m not getting reduced to that in the press. I’ve got a movie coming out in the spring.”

Zayn’s nostrils flare. He shakes his head.

“You’re jus’ like Louis,” he slurs. “Always draggin’ this painful shit up...”

This stings Harry. “Don’t compare me to Louis.”

Zayn looks miserable.

“C’mere,” Harry murmurs.

Zayn slips his jacket off and allows it to drop to the floor. Harry claps the lights off. Zayn collapses onto the bed, running his hand over his own face, rubbing at his beard.

“Just come be with me,” Harry says, aching with the knowledge that their short-lived and checkered time together is drawing itself to a close. “Just…”

Zayn comes across the bed, between his legs, his hands on either side of Harry’s ribcage. He kisses his throat.

“Make you forget you’re Harry Styles?” he whispers, his breath hot.

Harry nods yes.

Zayn puts a rubber on without being asked. He’s loose-limbed and flushed in the lips and cheeks from liquor. Harry watches him, breathing hard. Even in the dim light, he’s gorgeous; he has an angelic beauty that makes you want to forgive him his earthly sins.

They fall against each other, kissing deeply. Harry wraps his arms and legs around Zayn. The baser parts of him want to stay in this bedroom for all eternity, in this exact position. He wants to be turned into stone and remain under Zayn for a hundred years. Zayn sucks hard on his bottom lip. He loves Harry’s lips, he always has.

Harry rubs his knee hard against Zayn’s cock as he tugs his own underwear off with one thumb. Zayn clutches at his jaw, moaning into his mouth and grinding down against Harry.

“Go slow,” Harry tells him, running his fingers through Zayn's dark hair.

Zayn works Harry’s cock with his hand while kissing over Harry’s chest and stomach and hips. His hand is eager but clumsy.

“You should've come here sober,” Harry whispers, and doesn't give him time to respond but presses their mouths together again.

Zayn shoves his tongue into Harry’s mouth in a facsimile of penetration; he can't seem to get hard enough to fuck, to the frustration of them both. Zayn jerks Harry harder, like that'll help.

Harry removes his hands and pushes him onto his back. Zayn looks up at him, his dark eyes glassy and sleepy under his thick eyelashes. Harry takes Zayn in his mouth and sucks him, kneading at the spot behind his balls and stroking the insides of his thighs as he does. Zayn's eyes flutter back in his head.

“Get hard for me,” Harry murmurs, and licks up his cock. “Fuck me…”

“I want to, God,” Zayn cries raggedly, “I want to --”

Harry slides up against him and kisses him again, taking both their cocks together in his hand and rubbing them against each other. Zayn moans against his mouth.

“Come on,” Harry urges, his deep voice rough with arousal and frustration. “Come _on_ …”

He grinds up against Zayn and after a minute or so of this, comes all over his stomach and pelvis, gasping and sighing. Zayn tightens his fingers in Harry’s hair and thrusts harder into his hand.

Without warning, he rolls them over so Harry is on his back and pushes into him. Harry is beyond ready and willing. He moans louder than usual and Zayn spreads out over him like an octopus, kissing him all over and smoothing his hair back off his forehead.

“You feel so good,” Harry whines, white-knuckling the sheets.

Zayn makes a soft noise against his collarbone, and then a groan of frustration. Harry isn't sure what's happened until Zayn pulls out and begins stroking himself.

“Fuck,” Zayn says bitterly. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It's fine,” Harry says, rolling on his side. He's a bit disappointed, mostly because he knows this is going to bother Zayn.

Zayn bites his lip as he tries to get himself back up. He succeeds and pushes into Harry, only to give about ten good thrusts and go soft again. He moves away, swearing, and sits on the edge of the bed.

Harry reaches out and strokes his back.

“I've got loads of toys,” he murmurs, a bit hesitantly.

Zayn tenses.

“I don't want to use a fuckin’ _dildo_ on you ‘cos I can't get hard!” he says with anger.

“Then don't come here wasted, maybe!” Harry snaps.

“Don't,” Zayn says, and it surprises Harry how hurt and raw he sounds. “Don't…”

Harry pulls him close, back against the comfort of the pillows. They lie together, breathing softly, listening to the fan spin above them.

“We can just talk,” Harry murmurs. “About something besides us, or work. We used to talk. Used to be good friends, remember that? Even after we broke up.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, sounding small. “I miss it.”

“Tell me about your sisters,” Harry says. “How are they?”

Zayn does, then, with great pride, drunkenly tripping over his words but seeming to have sobered somewhat overall. He asks Harry about Anne and Gemma, and Harry tells him all about how they're doing.

Soon they're laughing, swapping war stories about Hollywood and sharing their protective dislike of their sisters’ various douchey boyfriends.

Zayn, very hesitantly, broaches the topic of Mia. Harry encourages him, and soon Zayn is telling him all about her and how precocious and wonderful she is, his face bright with happiness.

Harry hurts deep in his chest. He wants this with Zayn, he realizes. He wants them to have a baby who Zayn talks about like this. It kills him, but it makes him glad to see Zayn this happy, all the same.

He knows, then, this can't continue. He knows Zayn must go back to his daughter. Harry may be one of the great loves of his life, and vice versa, but right now they're just painful distractions to each other.

Harry holds Zayn very close and kisses him on the bow of his lips and the cheekbones of his lovely face.

“I've really missed you, Haz,” Zayn whispers, right before they fall asleep.

Harry nods. “Me too,” he says, with great difficulty.

 

*

 

Louis watches Mia play with her dolls in the living room, from the doorway.

He often does this. He’s fixated on her various developmental milestones, but he also just finds her fascinating and entertaining in the way only a parent can find a child.

She’s telling a story to her dolls, with funny solemnity. It’s about an elephant who goes to town to buy a pair of shoes, and can’t find any that fit. Louis is tickled by how clever she is.

He finally abandons his post to go rinse out his teacup. Liam greets him as he sidled up to the sink, taking him by the shoulder and giving him a quick kiss on the lips.

“D’you ever feel weird about how like Zayn she is?” Louis says to him, as he fetches a water. “I’m sorry, I should have prefaced that I’m in an odd mood today.”

“Umm,” Liam says, flipping an egg on the skillet. He furrows his brow and strokes his stubble. “Not really. Sort of nice, sometimes, actually. When I miss him.”

He winces.

“Ooh,” he says. “That was depressing, wasn’t it?”

“Just a bit,” Louis murmurs, poking him in the side. Liam laughs. “I dunno. It’s like, I love her exactly the way she is, every atom. I just… I dunno. This shit with Zayn, lately. My life could have turned out so differently...”

“Hey, and I’m glad it didn’t,” Liam says. “Tommo…” he slips an arm over Louis’ shoulders. “Try to lighten up.”

“I am,” Louis assures him. “I’m trying to let life be what it is.”

“You know,” Liam says carefully. “I said this to your mum once -- that no one would get that tattooed on themselves, right over their heart, unless they needed the reminder quite badly.”

Louis is touched by this in a way he can’t articulate.

“That’s actually very wise,” he says.

“I have my moments,” Liam says, smiling at him.

 

*

 

Harry showers for a long time the next morning.

He thinks about nothing. He turns the water up so hot it leaves his skin pink when he gets out. He enjoys the plush feel of his wildly expensive towels and the smooth glide of La Mer onto his freshly shaved face.

When he comes downstairs, Zayn has left his laptop open to a track and abandoned it on the kitchen table, headphones laid on the keyboard. He’s outside on the patio, smoking in the smoggy sunshine and staring at his phone.

Harry is lit up by curiosity. Some foolish and naive part of him wants it to be the song Zayn wrote about him, which he thinks he's finally ready to hear. He settles into Zayn’s still-warm seat and presses play.

A minute in, he has the thought that this is far better and more raw than anything else he’s heard of Zayn’s.

A minute and a half in, he twigs to what it’s about.

Three minutes in, he yanks the headphones off, his heart in his throat. He feels as if he just walked in on Zayn and Louis screwing. He blinks back the heat in his eyes and stands up.

Harry makes himself a cup of tea. He waits for Zayn to walk in.

Zayn does. He has the audacity to absolutely reek of smoke, and flick the butt into Harry’s trashcan.

Harry leans against the counter with his arms folded.

Zayn looks at him. There is a long moment of slow comprehension on his face. It quickly morphs into the defensive anger Harry so loathes in him.

“Were you listenin’ to that track?” he demands.

“What the _fuck_ is that?” Harry shouts, surprising himself, surprising both of them.

“Music!” Zayn screams. “Art! Fantasy!”

“That is a fucking _desperate_ plea for him to come back to you, is what it is!”

Harry presses his fingertips to the center of his forehead and one by one, exerts control over his muscle groups until he stops trembling. He stands there, willfully expressionless, a terror of absence, a human void.

“It's vague enough --”

“Not to _me_ ,” Harry howls. “Won't be to Liam!”

“I didn’t even want it on the record,” Zayn mutters, looking like a dog who’s been kicked in the throat.

“But you wrote it,” Harry says, his voice vicious and accusatory in a way he can't stand. “You wrote it and you recorded it. What are you _doing_? He’s _married!”_

“Let’s not pretend like you give a fuck ‘e’s married, Styles!” Zayn hollers. “Let’s not pretend this isn’t anythin’ but jealousy!”

“ _Fuck you_!”

It feels so good to scream that at him. Harry feels as if he’s channeling himself from April 20, 2015. There is truly no salvation for them now. The tide is coming in.

Zayn stands there, breathing heavily, his face dark with anger.

“Stop pining for him,” Harry spits. “Stop drinking yourself to death. _Stop_ it. Stop. Go home and see your fucking _child_ that you made with him! She needs you, Zayn, you’re her bloody _father!”_

Zayn stays rooted to the spot. Harry is overcome with a need to have Zayn out of his house.

“Stop pretending we time travelled to a decade ago!” Harry screams at him. “Stop pretending all of this didn’t happen! You got engaged, you screwed around on your fiancée and got your side piece pregnant, you left the band, _it happened!_ ”

“I’m not pretendin’ anything,” Zayn snarls. “My mistake, tryin’ to be with somebody so fuckin’ calculated and closed off --”

“I am _not_ \--”

“Maybe you ought to get back with Taylor, you’re like the same fuckin’ person --”

“Get _out_ of here,” Harry yells, “get out, get out, you fucking alcoholic, stop trying to throw your life away, go home --”

“What _home_?”

“Your family! Your parents and your sisters and your daughter! Stop circling the drain in fucking Los Angeles!”

“Like hell I am,” Zayn screams. “I’m workin’ on me fuckin’ career, or are you the only one who’s allowed to be obsessed wiv ‘is career?”

They stand there, panting at each other. Harry feels like he might throw up. He’s faint from all his screaming. He never screams like this.

“You’re being pathetic,” Harry says hoarsely. “You’re being a pathetic sore loser. You are not the bloke I dated. I don’t know why you’ve got such little regard for monogamy, I dunno how the _fuck_ that happened to you, but --”

“And you’re a pussy!” Zayn screams. “You’re a fucking pussy, you don’t live your life in reality, everything’s got to be so controlled and sanitized --”

“Get out!” Harry screams back, wounded. “Out!”

“-- you never came and sought me out all these years, you still let people think you’re a fuckin’ alpha when half of Hollywood knows how much you like gettin’ fucked, you never went solo, you were too afraid to do it without your little fuckin’ band behind you,” Zayn spits with menace. “You knew you didn’t have balls like me, to put yourself out there as raw as I have, that’s half the reason you hate that fuckin’ song, ‘cos it’s _real_ , what was the last thing you did that was real, besides fucking me --”

Shaking with rage, Harry takes his shoe off his foot and hurls it at Zayn’s face. It misses him, but clips him on the ear as it goes by. Zayn stares at him in shock.

“Get out,” Harry breathes, “of my house. Or I will have you removed.”

Zayn doesn’t miss a beat. He heads for the door immediately, without a look back or a goodbye.

Harry sits down at his kitchen table, and sobs into his arms.

 

*

 

Louis’ doorbell rings.

He’s typing at his work laptop and he pauses, baffled. It must be someone who knows their gate code, but it's a Sunday, and they aren't expecting company.

He strides through the house. Mia is playing in the backyard, and Liam is working upstairs. Louis likes the solitude of these weekend afternoons, when they're all home and mere feet away from each other but engrossed in different things.

He opens the front door. It's a picturesque September day. The sun is high in the sky, but the air is crisp; Louis can smell that fall is upon them.

Zayn stands on his front steps, hands in his pockets.

Louis’ heart speeds up. He hears blood rushing in his ears, and his mouth dries out. He folds his arms and looks down.

“Thanks for calling first,” he says quietly.

“Louis, I'm sorry...”

Louis looks up in time to see Zayn’s eyes fill with tears. His heart is tugged in his chest. He sets his jaw.

“I'm sorry.”

Zayn comes closer, his hand resting heavily against the doorjamb like it’s holding up all his weight. He’s a picture of woebegone dishevelment. He looks like he hasn't slept in twenty-four hours. “I fucked up, I did. I should've come home sooner. The record got away from me and I just -- it was --”

“Do you want to see her?” Louis mutters, refusing to make eye contact with him.

Zayn stands frozen in place, then nods.

“I want --”

He swallows.

Louis tightens his arms and turns more inward on himself. His wedding band feels very obvious on his finger.

“I wanna…” Zayn chokes on his own words. “I just -- sorry -- for what I did and what I said --”

“D’you want to see your _daughter!”_ Louis explodes, and exhales heavily.

Zayn gazes at him, his lips slightly parted and his eyes dark with guilt.

“I want to apologize to you first,” he whispers. “I hurt you.”

Louis laughs harshly. He's immensely relieved to have Zayn back, but he's so heartsick that he just wants him out of his sight.

“I… alright,” he says.

“Louis,” Zayn says, stepping toward him.

Louis stays rooted to the spot as Zayn comes forward, into his house, and wraps his arms around him.

“I'm _sorry_ …”

“Are you actually?” Louis says, his voice muffled by Zayn’s jacket. Zayn nods and holds him closer, whispering _yes_.

“Just go see our daughter,” he begs. “Please, just go see her. Tell her you're sorry and it isn't her fault, tell her it's alright and you're back for good. Tell her, not me.”

“Okay,” Zayn murmurs, stroking his back. “Where's she at?”

“The backyard,” Louis whispers. “Playing.”

They remain for a moment in each other's arms.

“I'm sorry,” Zayn says a final time, and he kisses Louis on the head.

Louis pulls away from him, clearing his throat. “Go.”

Zayn nods and disengages, patting Louis’ back as he pulls away from him. He glances up and stills.

Louis turns and follows his gaze. Liam stands halfway down the stairs, staring at them, his face in a fixed expression. His lips are drawn tight, his eyebrows furrowed.

Zayn says nothing. He takes his leave of them and walks down the hall, toward the back.

Louis and Liam stand in silence. The mere tens of feet between them feels somehow infinite. Liam's hands are on his hips.

Louis beckons his husband to him.

Liam exhales and then nods. He closes the space between them and brings Louis into his arms.

“When'd he get in?” Liam murmurs.

Louis sighs. “I dunno. I don't even -- he just showed up at the front door crying.”

Liam tenses. “Jesus. Is he alright?"

"Seems to be," Louis says tiredly. “It's… he's here, isn't he?”

“Did he go to see her?”

“I sent him back.”

“Mike said some… things,” Liam says, sounding evasive. “Zayn doesn't know he and I are friends, I don't think. He said Zayn struggled a lot with this record, kept trying to change things at the last minute, and that he showed up to the studio drunk or high nearly every session --”

“Stop, stop,” Louis whispers. “I get it.”

“I just thought you ought to know...”

“I don't want to know anymore,” Louis says, pulling away, wiping his own tears from his eyes with his thumb. “I don't want to know what happened or why it happened. I just want to forget about this. I pray he realizes it can’t happen again. Honestly, I think he does.”

Liam stands there, breathing heavily.

“Let's just say he had a bad summer, then,” he says, after a beat. “The lost summer. Let's put it behind us.”

“Aye, yeah,” Louis mutters. “That's all I want.”

“Okay, babe,” Liam says, slipping an arm around his shoulders and leading him into the living room. “Okay. You've got it.”


End file.
